#conformism is a disease I swear

[black-rose-writings]

It's frightening to me that there are people out there who genuinely believe that autistic or queer people would be happier if they could just take a pill and be "normal". Who believe that wanting acceptance is just another way of saying you want to conform to societal norms. Who think that being "normal" will always be inherently a better and happier state of being, even if its inauthentic.

I love my mom to pieces, but I'm so glad she's not responsible for my medical decisions anymore, because I would not want my life to be in the hands of someone who believes I'd be happier if my brain was rewired to strip me of a core part of who I am as a person, of something that affects every part of my identity and behavior and thoughts, because then I would be "normal".

Like, ma'am, that a horror premise. That's horrifying. And the idea of that happening your child should also be fucking horrifying.

But I guess when you believe all humans ultimately want conformity, it's only logical you'd believe messing with your brain to make you into a different, more conforming person, would be ultimately a good thing.

[cluelesswithadashofsmartass]

My newest project: These Bitches Need Therapy: Westeros Edition. Specifically the Dance of Dragons era.

A/N-This is meant for a female reader, but make the names whatever you want. You’re also 18 because its hotd and shit happens. The italics are you thinking. I own nothing.

CW: swearing, mentions of blood, death, and everything else that comes with medieval life

Part 1: Why me?!

“That was a fucking trip,” you say, turning off the newest episode of House of the Dragon.

If Viserys was my dad, I would’ve ripped him a new one. Who would allow their laboring wife to be cut open with no pain meds? All of is was for nothing and Aemma and their son died anyway.

And he marries his daughter’s best friend? This bitch is doing himself no favors, especially if he and Alicent have any sons. Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne would be challenged and if I remember the book correctly, would spark a bloody civil war.

I blame Jaehaerys for choosing Viserys over Rhaenys and I blame Otto Hightower for being a scheming, power hungry schlub. That being said, the episode was amazing. I can’t wait for the next one.

You get ready for the night and go to sleep with dragons and high born idiots filling your dreams.

————————–———————————————

the universe said: And I took that personally.

———————————————————————

You wake up sitting on the ground against the wall of a building, likely a butcher’s due to the smell of blood and meat coming from it. Two men in gold cloaks and armor walk past you and send a confused and disdainful glance your way.

Gold cloaks? Armor? Wait a minute.

You stand up and lean against the butcher’s, taking in your surroundings. People and horse drawn carts were moving at varying speeds down the thin pathways and dirt roads in front of you. They were in clothes that you had only seen in period shows and movies. Speaking of period shows, the smell was certainly accurate. The scent of excrement, both human and animal, was strong and nearly made you gag.

You look down and see that your dressed in the clothes you had been wearing before you sat down to watch House of the Dragon. Wait…

I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming. There is no way that I woke up in Westeros and in Flea Botttom no less. I’m definitely going to die, if not from disease or starvation or murder then from the fucking civil war that these aristocratic idiots will start in the future!

You reach into your jeans and find a piece of paper crumpled up in your front right pocket. It reads:

‘Dear (Y/N) (L/N),

You may be wondering why you are here. It is because you have knowledge that will be useful in these coming years. The future you have seen will come to fruition and many will die unless you do something. This was not done by accident. You have been given great power that can make or break kings and queens. Look in the bag next to you and find the small leather journal. Within it contains intimate knowledge and instructions that will help you in your assignment. The bag itself is magic and contains objects that may be useful to you depending on the situation you find yourself in. I realize that this is the last place that you want to be, but you are the only one who can help these people. They need an outside and frankly, modern perspective, especially the royal family. I will talk to you through the journal everyday to assist you. Just write the questions you have down at night in the back of the journal and they will be answered when you wake up.

Best of luck,

Lucia, Mistress of Fate’

What the actual fuck?

You notice the brown messenger bag. Fuming, you reach inside and find the leather journal along with a black hooded cloak, a ballpoint pen, a drawstring coin purse, and a sheathed knife. You open the journal and flip to the front page.

‘Make your way to the Red Keep and keep a low profile.’

This is so stupid! Why should I have to risk my life and conform to these inbred fucks? I should be in my bed, in my house, and in my time period. I shouldn’t be here because some lady wants to play God and throw me into this medieval hellscape. But, I’m going to die anyway so I might as well make my time interesting.

You pull on the cloak and draw up the hood. Better for these people not to see the sweatshirt, tank top, jeans, and sneaker combo right away. You sling the messenger bag over your shoulder and make your way over to the line in front of a food stall. The woman at the counter was selling skewers of meat, peppers, and onions. Food was food, so you get out the coin purse. You glance up and see a man looking at you in an unidentifiable, yet unsettling way. You take out the knife and attach the sheath to the loops of your jeans.

It’s your turn after five people. The woman looks confused at your clothes and opens her mouth to question who the hell you were, but shuts up at the copper coin you place on the counter of her stall and hands you a skewer. You silently nod your thanks and walk across the dirt road to a bench outside of what looks like a bakery, being mindful of the horse carts.

Biting into a pepper, you open the journal to the first page again. It says the same thing. You might as well get to walking. The Red Keep is a long way from where you are now.

————————baby timeskip————————

You’re panting by the time you get the to the Sept. You lean back on the outside of the Sept, grateful for the cool marble against your flushed, sweaty skin.

You look back up and see the Red Keep in the distance. With a huff, you push off the wall and stand upright to start walking again.

And not even a minute into the long walk to the keep, a slender body collides into you. Both you of you fall back in opposite directions; you into a pile of cabbage and the stranger, a girl after you looked closely, into the dirt road. A horse was galloping fast toward her, its hooves in the perfect position to cave in her skull. The rider wasn’t paying attention as he was more focused on trying to bring his mount back under control.

Welp. I guess I can cross ‘save someone’ off on my bucket list.

You scramble towards the girl and yank her off the ground by the forearms; apparently you pulled too hard since she cried out in pain. Her cry alerted some guards in the near vicinity. The guards had a sigil emblazoned on their armor, some kind of tower. However, you didn’t stop to dwell on it as you were busy trying to get the fuck away from them.

It didn’t take them long to catch up with you. They seized your elbows and hauled you the rest of the way to the Red Keep, likely to the dungeons for seemingly attacking a highborn girl.

So much for keeping a low profile.

——————time skip because I’m lazy————

You get tossed into a dark cell; your belongings had been taken from you, save for the journal. Minutes blur together as you wondered if this would be the way you died. At least your sweatshirt provides some warmth.

All of a sudden, the cell door bursts in and an armored guard stands in the doorway holding a flickering torch. You raise a hand to shield your eyes against the flames.

“On ya feet, woman. Can’t ‘ave ya late to ya own trial,” he said with a rotted sneer.

He fastened chains akin to handcuffs to your wrists and pulled you up to stand by your shoulder. He then grabs the chain connecting the chains and pulls you along behind him up the stairs.

While walking, you think back to the sigil on the guards’ armor.

A tower. Tower. Tower… A high tower? Yes, Hightower! Wait…a Hightower? Oh fuck me…

Your fears were confirmed when the guard left you in front of the man himself. Lord Otto of House Hightower, Hand of the King to King Viserys of House Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, looked down on you with a well deserved glower from a cushioned stool. The king himself sat on the Iron Throne with a similar look.

And the girl you pulled out of the road is standing a little ways from them with some other ladies, Queen Aemma and Princess Rhaenyra among them, with an uncertain expression on her face. A girl you now recognize as Lady Alicent of House Hightower, daughter of the Hand, and future Queen Consort to King Viserys.

Lucia, if I lose my fucking head, I will find you and kill you, slowly.

A/N- If this gets 80+ notes, I’ll write a second part. Also, my inbox is open. Ask me things!

[discyours]

In your book, do you believe there are some advantages to being born as a woman? I wonder if you could have chosen your sex (i know thats just big pulp of what ifs) would you choose this?

"If you could have chosen your sex would you choose this" is a question I asked myself at age 16 and followed up with several years of damaging my ribs to bind my chest and, at low points, taking a knife to my female bodyparts and tying myself a noose because ever becoming male felt hopeless and that had to have meant that life wasn't worth living. I try not to ask myself this question anymore because to me, it amounts to a form of mental self harm. I already know the answer and it isn't worth dwelling on.

I do think there's advantages to being born female, but they're arbitrary. We live longer (although that means having a much higher chance of having to watch the people you love pass before you do, especially in a culture where women still often end up with partners who are older than them). Our biologically generally makes us more resistant to famine, disease and a lot of birth defects. You could see the ability to have children (actually have children, not just impregnate someone) as an advantage, but given that it's the root of a lot of our oppression I'm not sure I want to frame it that way.

There's some social advantages too but again they're arbitrary. I've heard a lot of trans women declare that women have it better because they've noticed that complete strangers became kinder to them and paid a lot more attention to them once they started passing. I appreciated the exact opposite; I was finally left the fuck alone and that felt like a privilege to me.

My brother and I are both autistic. I've had an easier time finding a partner than he ever could, and if I were to lose access to disability benefits and become financialy dependant on my partner, I'd fall into a role that society has already carved out as fairly socially acceptable for women. But when it became apparent that my brother couldn't handle the stresses of school, it was seen as important that he found a way to "work with his hands" and he was showered in opportunities and support to get there. I was not. I was beaten for failing to conform to social standards whereas he was left alone to just be "a guy who keeps to himself". He has a paid job. I have treatment resistant PTSD, permanent disability, and, at last, a better ability to mask. I would've rather been in his position but autistic men will swear up and down that autistic women have it easier than they do because we tend to be better at masking so, again, it's arbitrary.

[track2hack]

Ohohohohoho there is ABSOLUTELY a story here, horseblr come in with the dets 👀

This ugly lil guy’s name is Wicket and he was bred by GWS Appaloosas. He’s inbred to hell and back, he’s a carrier for HYPP which is a muscle paralysis disease and his owners are aware of this and continued to breed him even though he could pass it on to his offspring, his colour is a generic fluke and not guaranteed AT ALL to pass down to his offspring (even though his owner swears by it lol), AND he also has horrible conformation and was never sound enough to be finished training for riding 🤷‍♀️

Pretty sure his owner is also super shady too, someone follow up on that?? I can’t remember lol

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: ALMS AND CHARITY: VIRTUES OF ZAKAT: Part 4

ZAKAT LIBERATES FROM MATERIAL SLAVERY

Zakat unfetters from the shackles of excessive love for material things. Islam, in fact, insists that a person be free from all sinister fetters and turn his heart purely in the direction of God, so to speak.

For man, becoming a slave for something that he is the master of is an awful digression from the purpose of his creation. Everything has been created for mankind, who should make use of this privilege in utilizing it in the way outlined by Islam, in natural conformity with the divine will. Otherwise, this could well end in the material universe being unduly elevated to a virtual object of worship, causing a detrimental sway in feelings, thoughts, and actions. The Noble Prophet (upon whom be peace) has emphasized this most unfortunate digression: “Woe to the slaves of gold, silver, linen, and silk! If they are granted these, they celebrate, but they cannot digest when deprived of them.”

The most effective cure for this disease is, again, zakat, an eternal investment that is an excellent means of orienting the heart of the benefactor towards the Hereafter.

ZAKAT IS SECURITY

Having expressed excruciating anxiety soon after the First Revelation, the nervousness of the Noble Prophet (upon whom be peace) was appeased by the soothing words of his wife, Khadija: “No, no…I swear, God will never forsake you; for you always visit your relatives, speak the truth, help others (physically and financially), treat your guests well and be of assistance in everything pertaining to the Truth.”

Abu Bakr had come across ibn Daginna, on his attempted migration to Abyssinia, who asked, “Where are you going?” Abu Bakr replied, “My tribe has tormented me, making life hell and has finally driven me out.” Ibn Daginnah, a socially influential man, retorted “No way! Return, for you are a man who does righteous deeds and lends physical and financial help to others. From now on, you are under my protection.” All this alludes to how acts like zakat, sadaqa and giving general assistance provide the security and protection of God, as well as gaining the trust of the public.

ZAKAT IS A COMPENSATION FOR SINS

As an outcome of His unlimited mercy, God accepts good deeds as a means of granting the servant proximity with Him as well as compensation for prior sins. The Noble Prophet (upon whom be peace) has personally emphasized how acts such as ablution for prayers, the daily prescribed prayers, the Friday prayer, Ramadan fasting and even walking to the mosque compensate for sins that were committed beforehand. Indeed, zakat is no different, as enunciated in the Qur’an:

God said: “I am with you; if you establish salat and pay the zakat, and believe in My Messengers and support them, and lend to God a goodly loan, surely I shall remit your sins, and surely I shall admit you into gardens beneath which rivers flow.” (Maida 5:12)

The Messenger of God had made use of the subsequent words in accentuating the compensatory facet of zakat among other deeds: “Salat, zakat, enjoining good and forbidding evil is compensation for a person’s shortcomings towards his/her home, family and neighbors.”

The Hadith “Protect yourselves from hellfire, even it be with half a date,” underlines the importance of sadaqa and zakat, even if these be a tiny portion, in making amends for a person’s wrongs, along with providing a shield against the torment of punishment.

ZAKAT IS A MEANS OF “DUA” (i.e. PRAYER OR GOOD WISHES)

Zakat, through various ways, acquires dua or good wishes for the giver. As stated in the Qur’an, it attracts the precious dua of the Messenger of God (upon whom be peace), not to mention the sincere wishes of the recipient. Angels join the person in offering these good wishes for the rich, from whom he has received a helping hand. The Qur’an’s advice to the Prophet (upon whom be peace) is, in fact, as such: “Take alms of their wealth so that you may purify and sanctify them thereby, and pray for them for your prayers are a comfort for them” (Tawba 9:103). The Prophet’s well-wishes for people desiring to offer zakat was, and is, renowned, as exemplified here: “O God! Treat them with Your mercy and accept their dua.” From time to time, the Prophet personally uttered the name of a Companion, such as Abdullah ibn Awf, for whom he prayed as such: “O Lord! Have mercy on his family and accept his duas.”

To wish benefits from God upon providers of sadaqa or zakat is what comes naturally, as cursing such people is horrendously against human nature. Therefore pronouncing the wish “May God be pleased with you!” towards such people is virtually translating the feelings embedded in the heart. As noted before, the hadith, “Two angels descend each day; one of them praying ‘O God! Bestow prosperity on the wealth of those who are charitable,’ and the other invoking, ‘O God! Destroy the wealth of the miser,’” amplifies the attitude of angels during such circumstances.

ZAKAT HINDERS INSATIABLE DESIRES

Human has been created as a candidate for eternal pleasure, a fact attested to by his eternal desires. When human lacks the transcendental dimension of eternity, all his engrained desires become augmented here on Earth alone, causing an exaggerated terrestrial bond. The Prophet of God expands this aspect in the following words:

If the Children of Adam possessed a valley of gold, they would desire a second (valley of gold). Only soil will quench their greed (i.e their greed will only cease when they are dead and subsequently buried).

As the Children of Adam grows, two characteristics concomitantly grow with them: the love of riches and endless desires.

The existence of love, inhuman, for the world and attachment to it as well as his endless desires are for the cultivation of the world. If a delicate balance is not established, however, the outcome is either excessive or recessive, vis-à-vis, insatiable love for the world or a complete abandoning of it. In actual fact, Islam condones neither of these perceptions, promulgating the establishment of that perfect balance between the two. Undoubtedly, zakat is a major catalyst in procuring ideal moderation in terms of keeping wealth versus sharing it—and between the rich and the poor. Thus, it is an ultimate reminder of the hereafter for human, in whom the seeds of worldly love and never-ending desires perennially exist, though through zakat, we grow in accordance with the divine will, incessantly facing the eternal abode with the unshakeable belief in the receipt of an enormous reward for even the most trivial deeds. This can be deemed, in a sense, to allow transcending the shallow walls erected by worldliness, and submitting to the boundless domain of spirituality.

Zakat reiterates the utter impossibility of eternal life on earth, ameliorating the feelings of separation by virtue of preparing the person for an inescapable resurrection and thus encouraging us towards the afterlife. And this is, by no means, a small gain for human. For many concealed purposes, the Almighty has rendered earth and its contents alluring, but at the same time, desires humankind to comprehend the test and take heed accordingly:

Made beautiful for humankind is the love of desires, for women and offspring, of hoarded treasures of gold and silver, of branded horses, cattle and plantations. These are the comforts of this life, yet with God is the best of all goals. (Al Imran 3:14)

The above-mentioned verse delineates the aspects of human’s innate inclination but in addition, displays the correct approach to be adopted. The potentially destructive intrinsic feelings of worldly love and endless desires are powerfully hindered by the acceptance of others’ rights in property and the acknowledgment of God, the Ultimate Possessor of property and riches, through zakat. Otherwise, the iniquities of greed and avarice lead to an elusive quest for luxury that further opens the door to what is called “the waste economy.” As expected, illegitimate methods may also be resorted to in this senseless hunt for riches. It is these destructive contingencies that zakat combats and successfully eradicates.

[ivyjlopez]

October 9, 2020, 8:19pm Q&A 101

Eight days before my birthday as of this writing. I’m actually having second thoughts if I should do a blog or a vlog. But, I do like writing and releasing my thoughts through words rather than speaking up. So, as I’m about to enter another year and continue to be an adult I’d like to start doing things I’ve wished I’ve done earlier. I do not intend to have plenty of followers in any social media platforms, the only goal is to write, encourage and lead people closer to Christ through my writings and to release the thoughts I have in my head for quite some time. Yes, I’ve always been telling people that I am an introverted gal and even so, that doesn’t mean I cannot share the gospel having this personality. Introversion is not a disease and if you know you’re one of the “introverted peeps” and is frightened to share the word by speaking up or encouraging people then share it the introverted way. You go, gal! The Lord got your back.  ;)

To begin this blogging journey, I’ve let some of my friends ask me certain questions about anything that they’d like to ask. Disclaimer, those that you’re about to read below are just based on my thoughts and opinions, and I’ve used some verses from the scriptures and will be using ‘em in my future blogs, if you’re actually opposed or you want to correct anything, feel free. So, here you go…

Question #1

Who are you?

I chose to answer this one first as a way of introducing myself a lil’ bit. So, most of my colleagues knew me as someone who’s meek, timid and quiet. But for those who are actually close to me would somehow oppose (lols). People would usually talk to me and seek advice as if I am a pro (lols kidding aside). I think it’s just that they consider me as someone worthy enough to be trusted sharing their deepest darkest secrets since I usually prefer to listen to someone’s rants and let the person do the talking cause sometimes that’s only what a person needs. Someone who’s willing to listen. I am literally not the type who does the first approach and most of the time would tag as “snobbish”. (Maybe I wasn’t really snobbish, I just didn’t see you due to my 300/400 vision. Haha.). I would definitely describe myself as someone who loves and values solitude, spends my spare time resting, reflecting, reading either at home or outdoors. I prefer to be in a small group of friends than being surrounded by the crowd. I am someone who doesn’t like the spotlight, I’d prefer to stay lowkey and not let everyone know what my next steps are. 

P.S. I might be one of the most picky person you’ll ever meet. Lols.

Question #2

Where do you want to go?

If this question pertains to travelling, I prefer land over water activities (just to add the fact that I don’t know how to swim that’s the main reason I dislike water activities). Nothing specific, it could be both local or international, I’d like to roam around places just to pass by a well-known spot and attractions, watch and appreciate the beauty of nature and sceneries, read books if possible (sort of boring to some but I’m just simply happy with this kind of thing).

Just to add up though, one of the unforgettable trips I did a year ago was at Puerto Princesa. To cut the story short it was supposedly for a two person trip turned to trio friends down to the first ever solo trip (sighs). It was my first time to be at the airport, first time to ride a plane, first time to go somewhere I’ve never been, first time to plan my own itinerary Onset (lols). Am I lonely during my whole stay? Definitely not (remember solitude is my forte) I was kinda nervous at first but it was suddenly replaced by excitement. I’ve met new people along the trip, my eyes were able to capture beautiful sceneries, I was able to eat and enjoy my breakfast without rushing. I didn’t do much activities on those days but my heart and soul was truly grateful and joyful. And it made me even realized, I am indeed capable of doing things on my own, going to a certain place on my own and just being on my own. Do not equate being alone to being lonely. I was planning to go back this year however, this isn’t the best time yet. Looking forward to visiting that place again and to more other places and countries soon.

But at the end of the day, as some would say, “there’s no place like home” - I will always end up with my comfort place which is, home. (But more than the home I have here on earth, I’m also one of those people who looks forward to coming home with the One who created humanity.)

Question #3

Is it really painful to be left behind?

Without a single thought - Yes. 

If it is for someone who passed away, the grief that anyone feels couldn’t be covered up by any comforting words even by the wisest person you knew. Just let the person grieve for now and do its work then healing will follow. Pray for that person too.

If it is for those who left in order to move out or pursue a career it would also be painful for those family members and close friends to see you go. But as for me, if you are in faith and I see you brave enough to explore the unknown, you will always have my support. It’ll be sad for a while. But we have to remember that sometimes letting a person go is also a way of showing our love and support. Let the person grow on his/her own.

Breakup - unquestionably painful. Why? Imagine not talking to the person you thought you’d end up marrying? Those plans you guys made will now be redirected to a different person. Same thing with losing a loved one because of death, this too needs a grieving phase. Cry as much as you want then stand up again. At the end of the day, you’ll just laugh it off (swear) forgiveness and acceptance will be your last destination.

Question #4

Lessons after the breakup

A lot actually (this might consume the entire space lols).

First, your happiness shouldn’t be dependent on a certain person.

Second, never allow yourself to be an option, you deserve to be a priority too.

Third, having the same personality doesn’t guarantee long-term commitment.

Fourth, never let a day pass by without fixing your arguments.

Fifth, communicate and choose to understand.

Sixth, shares the same faith and beliefs (it should always be a Christ-centered relationship).

Seventh, be consistent while both of you are still a work in-progress.

Eight, be honest. I’d prefer someone who tells the truth and does not sugar-coat.

Ninth, choose the people you’re hanging out with and/or seeking help or advise. Not everyone you call a friend is indeed a genuine friend. (It is written in 1 Corinthians 15:33 Do not be deceived: “Bad company corrupts good morals”)

Tenth, choose to forgive always, everybody deserves to be forgiven. Acceptance will always be around the corner once you’ve gone through the right stages of moving on. 

(I’ll be cutting it off right here cause there’s quite a lot that I’d like to write. Haha. I might write a separate blog for this. Stay tuned. Lols)

Question #5

How to stay positive in life? 

We can’t stay positive all the time. Even the strongest and the most optimistic person that you know will have his/her own downcasted moments and that is okay. Coming from someone who actually thinks negatively this question is kinda tough to answer (haha) but as for me, do not let negative thoughts overwhelm you to the point that it is already consuming you. Sometimes those thoughts are all in the mind and you’re just giving yourself a reason to create a problem that does not even exist. Surround yourself with people who will inspire and motivate you to do better, unfollow pages in social media that will trigger your anxiety, disconnect from people that are not helping you grow, stop looking up to idols and conforming to the pattern of this world, break the bad habits that you always knew you needed to stop doing. Keep it a habit to continually pray, always look up to God’s word prior seeking advice to your closest friends or bursting it all out in social media. If you are to seek counselling, ensure that it is from someone who will not tolerate you doing evil deeds. Read self-help books, open your bible, don't let the dust embrace it. Listen to calm music, it’ll help. Remember that you are loved and blessed. (Philippians 4: 6-7) 

(Thank you for your questions Jonnabae, Angge, Dani and Adreng) I’ll be posting the rest of the other questions and my response of course next week. :)

[felassanis]

More Sifa headcanons:

1. Their accents vary, seeing as the Sifa are consistent of different Clans they have no set acent. However, the ‘original Sifa’, best known for their red, curly hair tend to have thick accents that would sound like a mix of Welsh and Scottish to us.

2. Right, Sifa are proper stoners. Not all of them, but most. It’s something that passes the time on long voyages and they offer many safe herbs and plants that allow Gelfling to feel some form of euphoria. It’s frowned upon by other Clans, but the Sifa don’t care. Particularly experienced Sifans like Elders can visit the dreamspace sometimes and just like Lucid dreaming can control certain elements. Like, conjure feasts that could rival the SkekSis’s or conjure a dead lover and so forth. It’s rare, so very rare but it has been known to happen.

3. Have some of the most colourful curse words and this especially pleases me because Elder Cadia says ‘Bugger’ which alludes that canonically they curse like the British. I also feel like the Sifa are a lot more relaxed with their language and don’t put much stock in sounding literate. A Childling could swear and it would probably just make them laugh.

4. I can image the Sifa hosting their own holidays on the ships. So, maybe six ships might get together in the middle of the ocean, close enough that they can hoist planks across them; allowing the Sifa to cross over on mutiple ships to which all crews will get together. They’ll decorate the masts with lanters and banners, they’ll set up hundreds of tables and chairs and as soon as the band starts playing music it’ll be three days of partying, laughing, dancing and so on before the ships part ways again.

5. These holidays could probably be just a celebration of Clans coming together, celebrating culture in order to remind the Sifa that they are lot of cultures all intertwined together to form one. It could be a celebration for the sea, a kind of festival that thanks the ocean for being calm and carrying them safely, and to wish themselves another trine of more bountiful waters. Or...the Sifa just simultaneously want to get drunk.

6. There are cases where the Sifa can banish Gelfling if they do something wrong. But the crime must be very heinous and detrimental for them to even consider banishing anyone. So it’s very rare this ever happens, it might have happened a couple of times throughout Sifa history. They’re a liberal clan, so pissing them off can be very hard.

7. If this occurs, that Gelfling cannot step one foot on Sifa ships, they are to be avoided by other Sifa and they can never rejoin the Sifa unless they do something extreme to prove their honest character.

8. Most of the time, when somone is banished from the Sifa they usually just return to thier original clan. So, a Sifa who left the Drenchen to sail the seas or who looked Drenchen would just go back to the Great Smerf. However, for an original Sifa, this can be tricky as red hair is greatly tied to this clan so they can’t blend in with the other Gelfling races. Therefore, finding somewhere else to settle can be very hard given that the Clans don’t trust the Sifa and of course, the clans can be racist. 

9. I can imagine absolutely vast expanses of tents whenever the Sifa land. Sometimes they only leave their ship when trading, but as we have seen with Onica and Elder Cadia, Sifa pitch tents and I can imagine a sprawling city of tents in long fields. 

10. Incense, they definitely use incense and it smells amazing.

11. Also those pipes from Lord of the Rings? Sifa use them, they can blow amazing rings with them. They’re exceptionally long and often intricately carved with beautiful designs.

12. So, I don’t actually know how Thra’s society reacts to two Gelfling from different clans falling in love; but I think it’s frowned upon. With the Sifa, they don’t mind it. However, if it’s a Sifa with someone from a different clan, they’re very strict about the other Gelfling becoming Sifan. They see it as losing family otherwise. Moreover, Sifa are kinda of alluring to other Gelfling. They’re mysterious, with an air of adventure and freedom and they don’t conform to rules like most other Gelfling. We all love a bad boy afterall. Despite the horror stories older Gelflings tell about the Sifa, the younger ones who yearn for excitement find the Sifa very attractive. (Especially Vaprans) and so most marriages like this will wind up with the outsider joining the Sifa. There’s a lot of romance novellas about Sifa love interests, just think about those really cheesy romance novels about a fair, noble maiden who gets whisked away by handsome pirates. That is probably why Vaprans are more attracted to Sifa than they care to admit.

13. They’re canonically the most superstious, paranoid little shits in Thra. Stomp on the ship thrice for good luck. the good ol don’t step on the ship with your left foot or risk bad luck. Don’t look outside your window past midnight or a sea creature might gobble you up. Bow your head when you hear of someone’s death otherwise your next. Break a mirror and you’ve got bad fortune for ten trine the whole ordeal.

14. Literally, break and mirror and you can’t be on one of their ships for ten trine DO NOT BREAK MIRRORS.

15. A lot of Gelfling think the Sifa carry disease. This is not true. The Sifa are very capable of curing ailments and preventing them with rituals and potions and cleaning their ships. They may not take a bath as much as they should, but no other Gelfling carries that ocean-filled, beachy smell.

16. I feel like a cool thing, even if impossible, would be that the Sifa have a special ability when it comes to Tattoos. They can echant certain tattoos so that went tracing their fingers over them the tattoos actually move and come to life. Think about photographs in Harry Potter. The tattoos move like Gifs lol so a tattoo of a tree might shake like wind is blowing or they might have a depiction of the ocean where waves rise and fall....

17. Speaking of tattoos, the older Sifa will says you should only ever get one if it means something but those same Sifa as well as younger ones probably have really dumb tattoos like Fizzgigs on their ankles that bark when traced or an ex-lover’s name scratched out about five times.

18. Avid readers. They need something to pass the time! So I feel like a lot of ships have designated libraries which are strictly controlled and kept tidy. Cera-Na has a grand library where Sifa can borrow books lol, but they must return them.

19. Every Sifa is handy with harpoons and spears. It’s why a lot of them go to the Castle of the Crystal because they’re talented fighters with spears. You will not outrun a Sifa if they are carrying a spear...watch out. They have deadly aim.

20. The men are hairy. Very hairy.

21. While they cannot breath underwater like the Drenchen due to not being amphibious, the Sifa can hold their breath for a long ass time. From 1 to 6 hours. This is due to evolution conforming to the Sifa delving underwater a lot in search of shells, gems or treasure.

22. They trace constellations and use the stars to navigate the seas. The main cabin is always fitted with a beautiful map tracing the stars and they all have names.

23. As we have seen. Gelfling can sing to the creatures of Thra; and in Seladon’s case she can beckon them. I see Sifa singing their hearty songs and many sea creatures swimming up the service to listen. They’ll splash and swim along the ship and occasionally allow the Sifa to stroke them. This singing can be handy when in the rare cases a Ship wrecks, and the creatures of the sea with help survivors to land when they hear one sing.

24. When the Darkening occurs, the Sifa mention that portions of the sea light up in this violet hue, with the waves lined in black and seemingly being filled with lightning. As if the waters had swallowed a thunderous cloud and was stuffed with sparks. Sifa avoid this area, as a lot of sea creatures once thought peaceful have randomly attacked ships.

25. While Thra sings in the ocean as well, the Sifa don’t want to forget about the lands of Thra. So, to stay intune with nature they have plants all over their cabins, kind of like gardens spanning across the ship. Just imagine potted plants, strings of ivy winding all over archways and walls, hanging plants next to swinging hammocks so a Sifa can smell their beloved home...

[sinonpetie]

giverny oddities

It was a plague, a thing that consistently encompasses our understanding with a hideous thread of mischief, chaos, and immorality—served by its nature to incarnate the devils and deceive the truth. In such rational comprehension, authenticity is not a universal acknowledgement—yet who—for an epithet to be done dares to speak that we as mortals—serve to illogical living and unseen social parametric and expectations.

However, not in our worlds—servants, to decide whether the plague is an inextinguishable phenom—or a curable disease. Wickedly indisputable and threateningly proven in particular, such slaves breathe alongside this depraved side of the world—by any case, as well almost incorporated. The borderline never exist, though the idea of it may do slip through our delicate fingers and falls smoothly to the firm edge down like ideal gases.

The further we recollect—the deeper we apprehend, we were infatuated by the exhibited side of unfindable. Yet in malignant catastrophe, it's exceedingly a horrendous facade for who in the odd, what in the feud, the devil himself put in the frame of it. We get older by age and begin to deliver holistic belief on such ideal, but struggle to escape from the euphoria of youth—to become proper.

I believed when I first told the whole state of human aristocracy that the mindset of integral metaphysics could fool humanity is polymerization of chained infatuation, a holocaust happened in the college FGD. Through the curiosity that killed the young feline—it's intriguing on how such a chained crossed speeches could lead a precaution needed session of crude and uncivilized parole, and how it is blare and conflagration blaze out through the stained pilgrim blue windowpane. It's prompt anarchy and turmoil—roasted in every vowel of diphthongs and impredicative jointed expressions with such modulus ended with a pascal.

But indeed—far to be known as something undeniably correct in this lethargic view of masses, that even an iota could alter the innocence of pine coloured water lily impressionist painting to a coquettish frank orange cataract summer Saint-Lazare.

If by the next dawn of lighter hue of highlight both could swear by the dart orbs of Claude, it would be unfalteringly ghastly to witness such a lair embroidered on his optical manual. However by then, what is a myth and symposium, a false spoken truth there would be stated—whether we felt nothing—or yet a thing from masquerade epiphany lenses?

Yet between these counted numbers of frequently passed measurements—of diachronic history that never been loosed by the pouring shade of mandarin and beneath the strokes of cornflower light blue, none of us would be bothered to comprehend. None would bother to swings the swords of St. Joan and hold the renaissance red cross Jesuit shield—not that the beholder keep it unseen for the ensuing thread of muse and daybreak, but what if thou art was able to see by the light and comic portrayal arising to the pupil of the centre senses—that indeed is the death of Giverny? Hence our strings of breath lie in no other than blind faith—and I'm afraid it doesn't stop right on our tip of the tongue and the palmary of occasionally faint and deep lines, the alter ego would inquire our principles and decisions—on why would we believe something never crossed our eyesight.

Giverny showed us how the water lilies leaves could be Crayola blue and purple, and the pond could be opaque in rose quartz and serenity—even though Claude always paint them in jade aqua and Spanish fern—with strokes of basil and dots of chartreuse. But maybe it does mean something different out of his oil pastels.

Then how could mindless prick without wings and halos comprehend whether the thing is black or white—whether the ultramarine is a vast deep sea or a completed combustion flame? Hence we know that all of the matters are born inherently with stupidity and vane, the ignorance isn't bliss—but a plague.

But thou need to know that Claude didn't die believing that the sky is mint and the lilies are cornish, he died believing that the pond is still vivid stained aquamarine and the daisies are white and yellow. Because it's in his own accord that he did, and it's in his conformity that he believed in what he put his faith.

And yes, it's still a plague. Yet it decided by the human to err; to salvage; to conquer.

[mininky]

Nefarious Intentions

Summary: Life sometimes sucks. You’ve been stuck in that strange world that is adulting, questioning everything about life as you’ve gradually grown harder and harder to everything until one bland date brings you to a small record store and you meet him. Min Yoongi. In his very words, ‘not a good guy’ but he’s just too tempting to ignore. And safe, careful, planner you finds yourself wrapped up in the storm that is Yoongi.

Pairing: Min Yoongi X Reader

Genre: Smut, possibly the longest sex scene I have ever written, with bits of introspective romance?? I guess?

Word Count: 15.2K

Warnings: unprotected sex, oral (F giving and receiving), spanking, a hell of a lot of dirty talk, and as always from me, plenty of swearing.

A/N: This isn’t complete. You’ve been warned. It doesn’t leave off on like...a cliffhanger or anything, but I’ve had this bad boy sitting around for ages and I’m just too busy to finish any of my projects at the moment but a lovely friend of mine reminded me about this particular bad boy Yoongi fic and I felt that I owed all of y’all who’s stuck around my very long bouts of radio silence a holiday present. Merry Christmas, you filthy animals.

   You can still clearly remember the first time you fell in love. It wasn't anything amazing or special, it wasn't some wonderful whirlwind romance always portrayed in stories and movies. But you can remember the butterflies, the way your skin warmed uncomfortably any time you held hands, the way your breathing grew uneven just from the smallest of hugs or stolen glances. Soft kisses when others weren't looking would send your head into the clouds. You can also remember the heartache, the way it felt as though everything had come crashing down when he moved on and you were stuck trying to pick up the pieces of your life. But you would eventually, and if there's anything that you've learned as you've gotten older it's that love changes entirely. Not just with each partner but also with wisdom. Where you once could talk about the innocence of love now it was sex, marriage, children, careers, half-assed dates, trying to decide if you could see yourself living with that person or if the relationship wasn't going anywhere after just a few months.

   Love used to just be. It just came one day, crept into your heart like a thief in the night but instead of taking anything it just took up space. Ahhh, what a way to live. Youth holds far more innocence than people realize. Growing up is a pain, the world becomes crueler and you start analyzing everything instead of just living. When did that happen? When did love become a strategic game rather than just an effervescent thing swirling around in the depths of your soul? When did you start worrying so much about keeping up with others around you?

   You weren't always all this doom and gloom. In fact, most people will say that on the outside you seem to be a very positive, kind person. A bit of a pushover. Always there to help. Some might say otherwise, that sure you're nice enough but you seem to have a wall up. Is that such a bad thing? Is it bad to want to protect yourself from the inevitable pain of having to move on? If you were to answer honestly, wholeheartedly, you probably started feeling this way a few years ago. After you watched your best friend walk down the aisle. So beautiful. So happy. And you were so fucking alone. Miserably alone. And you felt like a complete bitch for watching such a beautiful moment happen all while thinking selfishly about none other than yourself. And then everyone else moved on. They got married or moved in with their partners. They had children. Your siblings all got married. And then there's you. The forever bachelorette. The workaholic.

   If we remain on the topic of honesty, you aren't even sure you know what love is anymore. You can vaguely recall the innocence of days past. The earnestness of loving simply because you couldn't control it. But you can't describe it. How does one describe love? If you had asked the you of yester-year...fine, yester-decade...you would have said, "It just is. It's there one day and it strings you along for a wild ride and you just try your best as the shotgun driver to help steer this whole thing along." But the older, hopefully, wiser you? Well, now you see love as something more akin to a good game of chess. It's a strategy. A battlefield, a place where good plans should hopefully get you across the way but where other plans can foil you. Fucking Pat Benatar had it right, who would've guessed?

   You glance back up at your date, drawn out of your internal ramblings as the waiter passes by. This guy isn't the worst. He certainly isn't the best. On paper he's got everything going for a good future. He's a doctor, he seems nice enough, he has his own home. For fuck's sake, he even works at a free clinic one weekend a month just to help people. And he's obnoxiously handsome. It's your third date with him. But why is it that you just don't feel a spark with him? Maybe you should sleep with him, see how that pans out. That's one thought. On the other hand whenever a waiter passes by you desperately want to grab the check and run back to your sanctum away from this boring hell.

   "(Y/N?)" You blink back up at Shownu, giving a small awkward smile.

   "Sorry, I guess I didn't get enough sleep last night. I'm a little tired."

   He nods kindly, grabbing a passing waiter and paying the check before he resumes speaking with you. "It's okay, you just looked a little bored. I'm sorry I'm sure that cardiovascular disease is probably a boring topic to most."

   "Oh no, it's fascinating." Lies. It felt like he was trying to read to you from a textbook. "I'm just a bit out of it. I have a new client who's been more than a bit difficult and I've had to work almost around the clock to try to figure out what'll make them happy."

   "What do you do again?" Looks like you aren't the only one snoozing off when the other person's speaking. That's not a good sign.

   "I'm a graphic designer. This client, in particular, is a local coffee shop, they're rebranding themselves but apparently, the two owners are having a hard time agreeing with what direction they want to go in. I'll get a green light from one and a red light from the other and it's been almost a week of this now." You ruffle your hair aggravatedly before stopping. "Sorry, I didn't mean to talk so much about work, I'm sure it's boring."

   "A bit." My god dick, take a hint. You were trying to be polite earlier and here he is just openly calling your work boring. "But that's okay. You've got a lot on your plate. You drove here right?"

   "Yup, I guess I'll talk to you later." Another lie. You have no intention of contacting him again. Even if he is hot and a doctor. Your friends would call you crazy to not be interested in him. But is it so wild to want to enjoy your time with the other partner? When did the world become about saving face and looking good? Was it always this way and you were just ignorant? No. Naive would be a better word for you. You needed to grow thicker skin.

   Shownu doesn't even walk you to your car, not that you're bothered by it. You wanted to escape just as much as he did. Looks like you'll have to keep looking. Or maybe you should give up. Be a spinster. Widdle your days away in your work and be the fun aunt who comes around to steal stop signs and do dumb shit with your nieces and nephews. Yeah, that sounds a lot more like you than some boring marriage. Maybe. Or maybe you're just giving up. You can't tell. Maybe it's just the last glass of wine you had talking.

   You look around before getting in your car, your eyes spotting a small record store across the street. You've lived in the city for ten years, yet you've never seen this tiny little gem before. It's tucked away, a small poorly lit sign simply saying 'records.' It looks so unusual here, in the posher side of town. But ten years ago this place hadn't been gentrified. It's like this one little building is holding out, refusing to conform. Unwilling to yield with the times, refusing to be aesthetically pleasing for some woman who owns a teacup poodle and drinks overpriced syrupy coffee who needs perfectly paved roads and has to speak to the manager. And before you can understand what you're doing you're jaywalking your ass right over to it.

   It's cramped, wall to wall, row after row it's filled with vinyls of all colors. There's a few teenagers looking around, clearly affluent based off of their clothing but rebelling. At least that's what you're assuming based off of the designer clothing mixed with cheap hair dye and piercings. Ah, you remember those days. Except your clothes were hand-me-downs and goodwill finds. Maybe vinyls are cool again. You can remember thinking you were hot shit to finally get a walkman at a garage sale. CD's were already mainstream then but they weren't cheap. The kids at school didn't have pity on you for that. Not that it mattered to you, it felt like you finally had the whole world of music available to you whenever you wanted.

   It feels nostalgic to go through the records. You can remember the way your oldest brother would begrudgingly take you with while he flirted with girls in a different record store. It was the spot, where only the raddest kids hung out. And now here you are almost three decades later in another record store late at night with just a bored employee and two rich kids who think they're hot shit for being in on something that others aren't. Ah, youth.

   One record, in particular, pulls at you. You stop for a moment, thumbing it before gently picking it up. Christ, does wine give you all the yearning for nostalgia or are you just getting old? You'll go with the wine, it's a much more comforting thought than confronting your age right now. You want to hang this up. Remind yourself of who you were. Who you are. You've been losing sight. Maybe. It's hard to tell, life moves too fast the older you get. Or maybe it's that pesky malbec. The fact that you only had two glasses isn't important. You need a scapegoat for tonight. A way to ease this growing uncomfortable feeling in your chest. Like the world is falling apart and moving on and you're stuck somewhere. You aren't sure where. But you do know that you need this. So you march up to the register, the two brats in the shop trailing behind shortly after.

   The boy, no that's definitely a fully grown man, lazily gazes up at you before taking the record and scanning it. You'd call him cute, but his eyes look a bit too hardened for that word. He looks like he's seen some shit and doesn't hide it from the world. Like he's ready for a fight at all times and probably sleeps with one eye open just in case. He'd be the type to survive a zombie apocalypse. "I didn't realize we even had any Atmosphere records. Wow, that takes me back."

   "Ant really was ahead of his time. I mean, don't get me wrong, Slug is a great rapper, but the real key to their music was how Ant produced everything. Their new records are great too, but this one? This one's just a real gem."

   "Hmmm, look at you, corporate hotshot getting her panties in a twist over some nineties backpack rappers." His words drawl lazily, a sardonic smile curling up and showing the gums of his teeth as he places the record in a bag. "The world is full of surprises." You aren't even sure what to say as he hands the bag over to you, standing there with your mouth agape before he nods his head. "You gonna move lady? I've got other people waiting." The teens behind you snicker, and you harden your eyes for just a moment before grabbing the bag and marching out. What a dick. A total dick. Tonight's not your night. Christ, what were you even doing there? You don't even have a record player.

   You don't realize it until you get home twenty minutes later, still fuming as you pull the record out, that he's left behind his phone number on the receipt. "Call me when you're bored, Ms. Corporate." When did the fucker even get the time to do this? The little shit's fast. He didn't even give you his name. Why does that bother you so much? He was a dick. You shouldn't want to know his name. You go to rip up the receipt but for some reason you find yourself tacking it up on the fridge. Maybe you'll save it for a lonely, no scratch that, angry night. Reem his ass out for fun and then you'll tear it up. Yeah sure, that's why you're keeping it.

---------------------------------

   A week's gone by and you still haven't taken down that stupid receipt from your fridge. You haven't gone back to the shop either. You've been too busy, surviving off of ramen and egg sandwiches while working painfully long hours until you want to tear your hair out. You finally reach some semblance of agreement between the two owners, and you've finally finished working on their project. You got it done faster than anticipated, you just wanted them out of your life. But now you have only small projects in the meanwhile. And that's dangerous. Because free time keeps allowing your brain to wander back to him. If you're Ms. Corporate then he's Mr. Dick. You kind of wonder what his dick looks like, if it's big enough to back up his ego or not. You'd rather die than admit that. Shit, what are you thinking? If you've got time to fuck around then you've got time to pick up some more clients.

---------------------

   You aren't sure how you wound back up here, but suddenly you're back in the same vinyl shop with Mr. Dick behind the counter again. You refuse to acknowledge the inner glee at seeing his face again. You barely even look in his direction, instead, you start rifling through the records before picking out a few more. Once you start digging through you find your brain focusing more on the artwork, on the way how everything comes together, nostalgia blossoming as you thumb through familiar covers. Radiohead, The Roots, Sade, Maxwell. Lord, you can remember your first boyfriend putting Maxwell on while making out with you in the car. You called him an old man, said it was probably what your parents put on to have sex. He was dejected, you thought it was funny but sweet. He didn't see it that way. So it goes.

   You quietly walk up to the counter, a soft smile playing on your face as you carefully place everything before the look on your face is wiped back to a careful blank slate when you see Mr. Dick cocking a half-grin at you. He looks like the type of guy that high school girls used to cream themselves over, they probably still do. The kind that always has a cigarette in hand, definitely used to be a skater, probably has a secret love child on the other side of the country, maybe did some minor time for a couple of DUIs. You almost want to laugh at the way you're trying so hard to picture his life. The poor dude's probably just totally normal, or maybe you hit the nail on the head. What does it matter, he's just some random dick.

   "Ms. Corporate, you're back I see."

   "I am."

   "Always a pleasure to see a pretty gal in here, but especially when it's you." You roll your eyes and he grins at this, you hate the way how your defenses almost momentarily break at just how cute he is when he smiles, really smiles. Here you were trying to figure out if he's done time or not and suddenly you're wanting to pinch his cheek. Christ, you need to get out more. And you don't mean back here either. "I'm a little sad though, you never did give me a call."

   "I never got bored. Besides, what was I even supposed to do? Call you up and go, hey the dick behind the counter at the record store, I'm bored?" He laughs at this, a full belly laugh before he cocks his head to the side.

   "You're an interesting one Ms. Corporate. Here I was trying to figure you out, and you've thrown me for another loop. I wasn't lying though, I was disappointed that I didn't hear from you."

   Your eyes narrow for a moment, trying hard to fight the heat that so desperately wants to rise to your cheeks. "Like I said, I wasn't bored. And I'm not interested in speaking to random nameless douchebags."

   He nods his head, sliding your credit card and humming for a moment before the machine chirps and he hands over your bag and receipt. Before you can turn around he's speaking again, "Yoongi. Min Yoongi." You stare at him for a moment before he continues, "Now I'm not a nameless douche."

   "A named douche doesn't fair any better in my books. I suppose I should've said that first."

   "Fair enough, but at least I don't buy old man sex music in the middle of the night." You can't help but laugh at that, Maxwell really is old man sex music so you can't blame him. In fact, some twisted part of you is elated that he thinks so too. Not that you'd admit that to even yourself.

   "Have a good night, Min Yoongi." He looks startled for a second, he's almost transfixed on the way you laugh. You can't feel his eyes trailing you as you walk out the door, you're far too focused on trying to calm the strangely warm fuzzy feeling trying to take over you to notice.

-------------------------

   Life is strange, no matter what age you are things will pop up that you can't explain how exactly it's happened, or why it's happened. The trick to being an adult is looking like you know what the fuck is going on, but the honest truth is no one does. Maybe they think they do, maybe they really do more often than not, but no one does one hundred percent of the time. That's the honest truth. The entirety of humanity is a mass of dumbasses pretending to look like they know what's going on. You are indeed one of those dumbasses, another fish in a large school trying not to be eaten but having no clue what lays beyond the school of fish ninety percent of the time. Your predator goes by the name of Min Yoongi. Perhaps he doesn't even see himself as a predator nor you as prey, but that's exactly how you see it. It's been over a month since you last stepped foot in his workplace. There should be no need to go. You now have five vinyls and still no record player. Most would call them poor financial choices and an odd way to splurge. You've thought about it more than you can count though, going back to see him that is. That stupid fucking receipt is still hanging up on your fridge, and it's taken everything in your willpower to not call him randomly.

   Min Yoongi. You wonder, far too often for your own good, who he is. What he likes, dislikes. What makes him tick. What gets him off. You blame him. It's the way he looks at you. Cold eyes, analyzing you to your very soul. Sneering at you one second, taunting you smugly, before switching to the sweetest smile you've ever seen. You've only seen him twice, no longer than a few minutes at a time. You don't know if you can even say that you've ever had a real conversation with him. He doesn't even know your name. And yet he runs through your thoughts on repeat. You would love to be able to settle on a normal human. A good guy, someone like Shownu. Safe, stable, traditionally handsome, a great career. But your stupid fucking brain feels nothing around a guy like him and then suddenly it sparks and rewires itself around a douche named Min Yoongi who you actually wondered if he did time or not. Life is strange. So it goes.

   It's thoughts like these that are your downfall. Late at night, all alone in bed. Pondering what he's doing, who he's doing. You're sure a deadbeat like him has a slew of girls at his beck and call. He certainly acts like it. But that shouldn't matter to you. After a month of wondering, going back and forth, staring longingly at the fridge, you're picking up your phone and slowly entering in the numbers. One digit takes you nearly thirty seconds, the last time it took you this long to call someone was when you were staying at your grandmother's house using her outdated rotary phone as a child. And here you are, a grown woman, terrified over some dick who works at a record store. Life is strange, you can't help but think as you delete the numbers and enter them back in. Should you, shouldn't you? What's to gain? What's to lose? Life is about strategy, isn't it? Does he offer you anything? Perhaps temporary release is all you need. But can he actually offer that? Maybe. Hopefully. Maybe not. Who knows. It's a risk. Not a calculated one either. In fact, odds are heavily stacked against him. And the adult in you says to not bother. That's what vibrators are for, if all you're looking for is a release. But there's another voice, something longing for this. There's something about him that plays on repeat in your head. Something that stirs up oddly sentimental feelings in you when you think of him. Which is strange, you don't know him. So how can sentimentality be tied to someone you just met? Maybe it's just part of his trade for soon to be old spinsters like you, you guess.

   You take another deep breath, staring at the screen as you sink down to the floor of the kitchen and finally hit the dial button. Shit. Fuck. What are you doing? This isn't like you. You haven't thought out every exit strategy yet. Christ. Oh god. "Hello?" His voice is deeper over the phone. You won't explain how that makes you feel, it's a bit embarrassing honestly.

   "Yoongi?"

   "Ms. Corporate?"

  "...Yes..." That's right, you never told him his name. There's garbled background noise for a minute, you hear him telling someone to shut the fuck up before it's eerily silent for a moment and then you hear a breathy chuckle. And oh god, you are so so so fucking screwed.

   "Holy shit. I didn't think you'd actually call. Just when I thought you forgot all about me you actually call."

   "I was bored." You bite back a smile, head resting on your fridge as you stare up at the ceiling. Jesus, you should dust more often, is that a spiderweb?

   He gives a sing-song laugh, and that strange tipsy feeling in your gut bubbles back up again. You feel oddly nervous, kind of giddy. When's the last time you felt this way? You don't know if you ever did. "Holy Christ. I'm sorry, give me a moment, this just...makes me weirdly happy. Fuck. Shit. -I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO HOME. Sorry, not you Ms. Corporate. Just uh, a friend. He's a dipshit. A bit drunk. Having girlfriend troubles I guess. Dunno why he came to me. I uh...I dunno why I'm telling you this either. Christ. Are you still there?"

   "I'm here." You don't know what to say. Fuck. Why did you call?? It's been nearly thirty seconds and you've already lost all confidence in saying anything. This is why you need a plan, a strategy. When you don't know how to proceed the only option is to deflect. So deflect you shall. "How did you know it was me?"

   "I've answered nearly every unknown number asking if it was you for about six weeks now if I was very honest. Not that you needed to know that." You swear you can hear him give an awkward chuckle. How unexpected. Perhaps staying behind the counter gives him an odd confidence boost. Or maybe he's been drinking just like his friend and is being a bit too honest. You're not sure why, but that doesn't feel like such a bad thing to you. The lack of snark is as startling as it is endearing.

   "Well, I've kept your stupid receipt pinned to my fridge for the last six weeks. Not that you need to know that." You smile at the way he laughs this time, mentally visualizing his gummy smile. Maybe you should have face timed him. But then he'd see you looking like a full damn mess in the middle of the night. You'll just have to imagine what he looks like.

   "You're really cute Ms. Corporate. Really obnoxiously cute for someone who has the strangest taste in music. I mean you went from Atmosphere to Radiohead to Maxwell. I'm sure it branches out even further than that and hopefully to a few other decades. I'm curious."

   "About what? My music tastes?"

   "Well yeah. And a lot of other things about you. Like I said, I've been trying to figure you out. You run around in my thoughts all day lately. That's not fair Ms. Corporate. Not fair at all. At least you can think of me as the douche with the name. But all I've got is Ms. Corporate with weird music tastes."

   "Hmm...."

   "What do you mean hmmm? Isn't this your cue to, oh I don't know, tell me your name?"

    "It's fun this way. Safe. Now I don't have to worry about you looking me up and finding my place and chopping me up into pieces."

   "Pretty sure I would've done that beforehand if that were the case, you know, cover my tracks and not leave my number behind or anything. Come on Ms. Corporate, you're killing me. I want to know if your name is as pretty as your face."

   You give it a moment, relishing silently in the exasperated sighs you hear over the phone, his feet shuffling loudly against pavement before finally, you speak up. "(Y/N). My name's (y/n)."

   "(Y/N)." The way he says your name slowly has tingles running up your spine, your cheeks heating up at the way it almost feels like he's savoring your name. Christ, what is it about this cheeky devil? One second he's captain douche and the next second he's adorable and then suddenly he has your toes curling just from the way he says your name. He has 'bad idea' written all over him in big bold letters and yet here you are, sitting on your kitchen floor grinning like a fool. When's the last time you smiled this much? Shit, that's a depressing thought, let's not think about that. "That's a pretty name. It fits you."

   "You sure do seem to be all compliments tonight. I'm wondering when sir asswipe will come out."

   "I save him for the store. Customer service will do that to you." That's...fair enough. But still. And why does that make you laugh? Why is it that everything just seems so easy with him? "(Y/N)." He pauses for a moment, you hear a lighter clicking in the background before he takes a drag. Well, it looks like you got one thing right, he's a smoker. Ashtray tongue, not that great. You bet he makes it look hot though. "I wanna see you."

   You don't respond, breathing halting for a moment before you hum. You want to see him too, that's the honest truth. You want to get to know him, explore him. Open him up and examine his thoughts, lay in bed and talk for hours, maybe throw on that Maxwell record and see what happens. Wait...what the fuck are you thinking? You can't help but burst out laughing, stopping when you realized that you probably sound absolutely insane and rude. Insanely rude. "Wait, no I wasn't laughing that you want to see me, it's just...I don't know why but that stupid Maxwell album popped into my head." You pause, terrified that he'll be angry or upset or realize that you're a bumbling idiot but instead, he gives a sing-song laugh. God, you want to see his face too.

   "Okay, real talk though, why did you buy old man porn music?"

   "I felt like I had to, I don't know, buy it to repent for my sins?" He's wheezing now, his laughter becoming infectious until you find yourself cracking up with him. Why is it so easy to talk to him?

   "What in the fuck does that even mean?"

   "I feel like at this point, it's better without explaining. But I will anyway. When I was in high school I was dating this dude who broke up with me because I made fun of him for putting on a Maxwell tape when we made out in his car. I told him it was old man sex music, and when you said it when I was checking out it confirmed that while I was right, I owed poor Maxwell my money I guess. I don't know. I'm not making any sense am I?"

   "Kind of? Not really? I get the feeling that I'll always still be wondering a bit with you though. Not that that's a bad thing. You're weird (Y/N), but good weird. I certainly didn't expect this from a corporate hotshot."

   "Why do you keep calling me that?"

   "Well, you look like you work in an office. You don't?"

   "Nope. I own my own business, I'm a graphic designer. But I was on a date the first time I popped in, oh and the second time I popped in I had just finalized some things with a client in person."

   "You...you wore a business suit on a...date? I don't mean to be rude but um...how old exactly are you (Y/N)? Like what era did you come from?"

   "Ah, Monsuire Jerkwad appears again. I'm 30 for your information. Which is an old biddy in my mother's eyes."

   "Whaaaat? I mean I figured from your music choices you were about my age, but wow. Look at that, I'm just one year older than you. I guess that makes me whatever the fuck the male version of an old biddy is. Say though, (Y/N), why for fuck's sake would you wear a business suit on a date? You didn't answer that earlier." Huh. So he's just a year older than you. You thought that he was younger actually. Man, asian really don't raisin. You briefly wonder what his skincare routine is. Or maybe he's one of those bastards that just uses Irish spring soap for everything and still magically looks great with no idea that there's a difference between moisturizer and lotion.

   "Ah...well, I went on the date after meeting with a client. But I mean, it was like a hot librarian suit right?" You can tell by the laughter that you were way off the mark. "Yeah...okay so it was just a normal suit. But whatever, I didn't feel a need to get dressed up for him."

   "What, is the guy a slob or something?"

   "Nah, in fact, it couldn't be further from that. But I dunno I just didn't really jive with him."

   "But you went on a date with him anyway?"

   "I told you Yoongi, I'm an old biddy. I'm drying up over here. Eggs ticking or whatever. At least according to every single family member, even the extended ones I rarely talk to."

   "Being a chick must be rough, I feel like they nag you guys extra hard. But I get it, my folks are always pestering me to get married. Settle down, find a career, have kids. Shit, at this point they don't even care what order it happens. If I came home with some random baby I think they wouldn't even be angry they'd just be like 'finally, little Mins.' It doesn't help that my brother and his wife don't want to try for kids for another couple of years so suddenly all the pressure's on me."  

   "God, I felt that in my soul. Why can't they just let us breathe? It's like my life revolves around finding someone to make my parents happy all of a sudden. I don't even know when that happened. Or how, or why. But it's like, I've gotta keep up with everyone else you know? I feel like somewhere along the line I got left behind."

   "Did you though?" He takes a long drag, and you swear you can practically smell the cigarette through the phone. You bet he's a clove kind of guy, he's too weird to go for menthols. "I mean, did you really get left behind? Life happens for everyone at different times. What's so wrong about that? Trust me, I get the pressure and the nagging and the bullshit. But at the end of the day, this is your life. Live it without regrets. Why settle just because other people tell you that you should? That seems boring as fucking hell."

   Life really is strange. Who would have guessed that some random dick in a random record store you'd never been to before a shitty date would suddenly be the one lifting the burden off your shoulder as if it had never been there? Everyone else was always telling you that it would happen, that the right guy would come along and soon enough you'd be married and having kids and all would be grand. But the honest truth is...that's not what you want. You don't even know if you want kids. And marriage? Man, that just seems like something you don't need in your life right now. When did you get so wrapped up in feeling like you'd been left in the dust that you felt you had to do the exact same things to keep up?

   Somewhere, in the core of your very being, you probably knew right then and there that you were getting into way too deep of territory for someone you had just met. But you had dropped your guard, refused to acknowledge any warning signs. How could you when someone finally was telling you that it was okay to just live? He told you the words that you needed the most without even knowing it. You can feel tears threating to rise but you gulp everything down and instead just give a quiet thanks. You just hear the drag of his cigarette again before he responds with an equally quiet no problem. It feels like the world could stop, right there and then. As if it was just the two of you, frozen in your own separate corners of earth while quietly listening to the static from the phone and all would be well. It felt safe. Dangerously safe.

   "Fuck, I need to charge my phone it's about to-" With that, the call drops and you stare at your phone for a moment. Maybe it was for the best that his phone died, who knows what you would have said to him if you stayed on the phone any longer. You just practically spilled your guts to a virtual stranger from your kitchen floor at one in the morning. And yet, for the first time in a long time, all you can do is stare happily at your phone before finally forcing yourself into bed.

   The next morning you may or may not have squealed like a complete buffoon upon reading the text you missed from him after falling asleep. "Sorry bout that. Next time tho, I wanna see you in person. That way there's no worries about my phone dying." Shit. It's too early for this kind of attack. You'll blame being half-awake for why you responded with just a simple "K." You only have your own neuroticism to blame for your internal freakouts that constantly reoccur over the next few days when you don't hear anything back. Maybe you were a bit too dry. Okay...you most certainly were too dry. Christ, if there's ever been a dead fish version of a text, that would be it. Maybe you should have expected to fumble this badly. Maybe it's a good thing. He didn't seem like the type to really be interested in anything other than playing around. Not that you were expecting anything. Right? Okay...well maybe you did kind of really want to make out with him. Which is strange, because honestly, you can't remember the last time you even thought of wanting to make out with someone. University years maybe? But now's not the time to be thinking about that! Nows the perfect time to throw yourself into work, it's the best scapegoat for avoiding emotions you'd rather not explore.

----------------

   "Wow, your boredom intervals are quickly decreasing. Do you not have a lot of work right now or?" Jesus what in the fuck are you even thinking, dragging your ass in this stupid fucking store in the middle of the night for a third time. And you still don't have a goddamn record player. God, you pray he never finds that out. He'd probably never stop making fun of you.

   You can't help but shoot a glare in his direction, but your nerves falter the moment you see the shit-eating grin on his face. You swear you can feel your breath hitch in the back of your throat and trap itself. It's suffocating. Blinding. It's not fair. He's so handsome. Dark disheveled hair partially obscuring his coffee-colored eyes, gummy grin, obnoxiously white teeth for a smoker, milky pale skin that's always at stark odds with his typical black t-shirt, veiny hands. This isn't good. This isn't fair. You really want to kiss him.

   "What, cat got your tongue or something Ms. Corporate?" He's leaning across the counter, head cocked as he openly ogles you. It's not fair. You've been a wreck for the last few days, waiting around for some sort of a response and this fucking shrimp is acting like you never spoke. Like nothing changed. Like he didn't tell you he wanted to see you in person. It's probably just your own stupidity or neuroticism peaking through, but when he called you Ms. Corporate it felt like that perfect paradise on the phone was all a mirage. As if it never happened. It's infuriating how he can act so calm. Before you can continue overthinking and turning around in circles you march up to the counter and grip his shirt in your hand, pulling him in for a kiss that he reciprocates unusually quickly. You can feel his tongue slide across your lower lip, asking for entrance when the sound of the door chimes pull you quickly away. Damn these stupid kids buying records in the middle of the night. Don't they have a curfew?? Fucking rich kids trying to be edgy when they should be at home, in bed, not fucking interrupting this not so Hallmark moment.

   "Stop fucking calling me Ms. Corporate, you colossal idiot." You can distantly hear him sending you off with a hoarse 'goodnight.' Everything in you wants to turn around and see what kind of a face he's making. Is he just making fun of you? Is he as hot and bothered as you from a kiss? It felt like electricity ran up your spine like everything was floating for a moment, the world just goes away when you're with him and all that's there is the two of you. Fuck. You like Sargeant fuckface from the record store. And even though you have a feeling that all of this is a terrible idea you can't help but grin to yourself the entire way home. Hey, at least this time you didn't waste more money on records you can't play.

   You aren't sure if it's the place, or Yoongi, or your increasing age that your mother likes to remind you of constantly (not that you'd ever admit that) that makes you feel so nostalgic, so sentimental. But whenever you're around him it hits you hard. When did love lose innocence, when did it stop simply being about selfishly, greedily wanting to learn everything about the other person and staying by their side? When did it grow to be a chore, a thing that you did because it was another step on the ladder of life? And why is it that when you're around him all you can feel is those same simple straightforward feelings? Fuck, you want to kiss him again. His lips were so soft, and you were right, he tasted like Djarum Blacks. You wonder how he got them, you're pretty sure that there's a ban on them now. Ashy, a bit of clove lingering on his lips. Lingering on yours. God, it's almost infuriating how happy that makes you. Almost. But right now, you're too wrapped up in glee to be annoyed. You hope that somehow, someday, you'll manage to wrap him around your finger the way he has you so effortlessly wrapped over his. Not that you're complaining. If you're going to be wrapped around anyone's fingers, you're okay with it being his. Not that you've been staring at them whenever he handed you your bags or anything. Nope. That definitely wasn't the case. Maybe.

   When you get back home you try your hardest to stay busy, but your thoughts keep wandering back. Jesus, you think it would be easier to control your brain. It isn't until your phone clatters off the counter that you realize Yoongi's calling you, and for a moment you squint at the phone before hastily picking it up and answering. Shit wait, act cool. "'Sup Colonel nitwit?" Fuck, wait that wasn't cool. Christ, why are you like this? What are you, a twelve-year-old boy? You should probably seek counseling for your stupidity. Or maybe not, because when you hear that sing-song laughter reverberating through your ears it suddenly makes everything feel okay again.

   "You're something (y/n). A real piece of work. I mean you called me an idiot earlier, no wait, a colossal idiot and now I'm Colonel nitwit?" He laughs again, and once again you find yourself sliding down the fridge onto the floor, blushing as you blink up at the ceiling. Dejavu. "Ah, this is bad. I should have texted you. Hearing your voice makes me want to see you in person."

   "Foul. Out of bounds. That's not fair play. You aren't allowed to say things that cute."

   "You fouled first, who just marches up to someone and kisses them at their place of work?"

   "It's not like anyone else was there." You're glad he isn't here to see your face, you're already grinning like a fool and you have a feeling that he'd tease you mercilessly if he could see you right now.

   "Until those damn brats showed up." Ah, it makes you painfully happy that he was just as annoyed as you were. "I don't know what it is about you, but you just run around my thoughts all damn day."

   "So why didn't you ever text me back?"

   "AH! About that, I realized after I hung up that you said you were out on a date that first time and I suddenly started feeling like a homewrecker. I mean, I know you said that you didn't seem interested in him or maybe that was me just hoping I heard that I dunno everything feels kind of fuzzy now. My memories are hazy I just-"

   "It was just a date, not a boyfriend. I'm not the type to talk to others when I'm sincerely dating. Although I'm also not the type to call up guys who leave me their numbers on receipts. I guess the world is full of surprises."

   "God, this is really bad, I really wanna see your face. And you can't tell me that this isn't fair play when you basically just called me special."

   "I'm sorry, but what language were you thinking I was speaking that that's what you came up with? Because I'm pretty sure I didn't come close to saying that."

   "No no, it was totally there. In the subtext. It's all about the subtext you know. I mean you said that you aren't the type to call guys who give you their number on a receipt and yet you still called me. That makes me special."

   "Bwa-what's with that. You dork. Shit, now I wanna see your face."

   "Where are you? I'll come over to you."

   "I'm at my home. Scary. Maybe you are a serial killer and that's really your goal. You know, to chop me up in little pieces or some weird shit."

   "Wanna take the risk?"

   "Kind of."

   "Only kind of??? What's with that lukewarm response? I'm clearly not a serial killer. But I won't act like I don't have nefarious intentions." You can hear the clicking of the lighter, and you can't help but take a deep inhale at the same time as him. God, you bet he looks hot smoking. Wait no, smoking is bad. Very very bad. "Where'd your thoughts go right now, (y/n)?" It's not fair. He has you wrapped around his finger. You want to see him, you want to inhale his scent, run your fingers through his hair, taste him, touch him, fuck him. Fuck. When's the last time a guy got you this hot and bothered from merely existing? Has this ever actually happened? You aren't sure.

   "I'm curious, describe these nefarious intentions please."

   There's a pause, another drag of his cigarette. "Alright, I'll start with the less deviant things. I can't get the feeling of your lips outta my head. I want to kiss you, hold you, touch you. It's weird, I'm not normally the type for soft fluffy things. But the world is strange, as you said. You do weird things to my brain (y/n). You run around my thoughts night and day. When the door chimes at work I turn into Pavlov's dog and hope it's you." There's another long pause, for a moment all you hear is the thudding of your heart rushing into your eardrums and the soft staccato of static coming from your phone.

   "Those don't seem very nefarious to me."

   "Interesting, so you DO want to hear my deviant thoughts."

   "Well, calling your intentions nefarious is a rather interesting way of putting it. It makes it sound more sinister and less...I dunno...sexual? And then when you explained it all seemed rather, I don't know...innocent I guess."

   "That's because I don't wanna scare you off, Ms. Corporate."

   "Again with that stupid name?"

   "I wanna fuck you." Shit, you weren't expecting him to be that straightforward, especially after he seemed to be beating around the bush earlier. And why are you now a mix of happy and horny? That's a new mix for you. "I want to see what kind of faces you make when you cum. I want to taste you. I want to see you under me, on top of me, I want to hear you beg, I want to hear you scream my name. I want to ruin you until all you can think of is me. Until all that satisfies you is me, because right now all I can think of is you. All I want is you. And it doesn't feel fair to not see you in that same boat. So what do you say, (y/n)? Do you still want to see me tonight?"

   You want to tell him that you're also in the same boat, that really the two of you have been going in circles with the same thoughts for probably just as long. Both of you are so greedy, wanting and thinking of nothing but ruining the other. But ruin seems an unfair word, it seems to scratch only the surface. The honest truth is that you just wholeheartedly want the other person, you want them under your thumb to declare them yours. Maybe. It's strange. You were always the kind of girl to take things slow. You never did one night stands, you never had fuck buddies or booty calls or anything even close to resembling that. Sex was always something that came far later in a relationship. But this? You aren't even sure what it is. You can't exactly say he's a friend, you don't really know him. You can't say that you aren't on the way to becoming lovers, but then again he might be thinking of things from a strictly physical standpoint. You aren't sure. Maybe you should ask. Someday perhaps. If you were frank though all of this excites you. Fascinates you. Terrifies you ever so slightly. But all you can think of at this moment is that it elates you to no end that he wants you just as much as you want him. How absolutely greedy. "I do. I probably shouldn't, but I do."

   "Yeah," the dark chuckle on the other line brings heat up to your face, your breath catching in your throat. He suffocates you even with the simplest of things, even with a laugh. "Yeah, you probably shouldn't. You strike me as a good girl. The type to always please others before pleasing herself. The type to not rebel. I don't know why, but I feel I should at least tell you this. I'm not a good guy, I'm not the guy you take home to your parents or the kind of dude you can gush about to all of your friends. But I am at least confident that I can give you a reprieve. It's gotta be stressful, being good all the time constantly working for others, constantly pleasing others. But who tries to please you, understand you, allows you to just be selfish every once in a while? I can be that for you. I want to be that for you. Which is really weird because I usually hate when chicks want that from me. And here I am offering myself up on a silver platter to you. Man, the guys would think I've gone crazy if I told them this. I don't even get it, but there's just something about you that makes me feel...I dunno something."

   It's strange, how little he knows you and yet he says the things you need to hear the most. When is the last time you did something simply because you wanted to before he stumbled into your life? Did you ever? Here you were hot and bothered before and now you want to cry big fat ugly happy tears. Yoongi gives you emotional whiplash with just a few words. It's not fair. "I want to see you. Tonight."

   "Okay." Another drag, another chuckle. "Okay, then send me your address."

   You fumble with the phone, texting the address over to him quickly, your heart jumping out of your throat the entire time. The anticipation has your heart soaring and nerves dropping deep into your belly, you're a mess of a multitude of emotions all at the same time.

   "Wow, would you look at that. You're only about ten minutes away from me. I'll be over soon." Before you can respond he hangs up, and you're left staring at the ceiling wondering momentarily what you've just gotten yourself into before you're scrambling off the kitchen floor and into your bedroom. Shit, shit. You don't have much time. The house is presentable, barely. Whatever. It'll have to do. You brush your teeth, comb out your hair quickly, and do a quick once over. He'll have to just deal with your bare face, but hey at least you shaved in the bath earlier. The doorbell chimes right as you throw an oversized sweater over one of your nicer lace bras you quickly changed into. You nearly knock into every door and corner on your way to the front door, slipping slightly at the entrance before taking a deep breath and opening it.

   He's painfully good looking, but his trademark blase pokerface has you ever so slightly annoyed. Here you were rushing about, a bundle of nerves and energy, and he looks remarkably indifferent to everything. As if he didn't just tell you that he has, and you quote, nefarious intentions. But that thought runs right out the door the moment he narrows his eyes on you and gives you one of his award-winning gummy grins. You're so fucked. You're such a sucker for him already. "You okay?"

   "What, yeah, why wouldn't I be?" You open the door wider, motioning him to come in before shutting the door gently behind him.

   "Because you look nervous. Relax, I'm not here to eat you. Eat you out, maybe. If that's what you want. I'm only here to give you whatever you want." He narrows his eyes on you again, his gaze sweeping over you before looking directly at you. It feels like he can see right through you, right down to your very soul. It's comforting, terrifying, it's like everything that comes with him is a euphoric blend of polar opposites leaving you to drown somewhere in the in-between. He makes you feel like you're in the eye of the storm but precariously close to being tossed into the chaos raging all around you.

   "I hate to say this, but that sounds almost too good to be true. What's in it for you?" You tilt your head, analyzing him as you lean back against the door while trying to feign nonchalance.

   "You. And oddly enough, for once that's enough for me." He shrugs at this comment, although his eyes narrow a bit as if even he can't even believe that he just admitted this.

   "What if I said I didn't want more? Or what if I said that I wanted no strings attached if there is more? Or if I said-"

   "-I want strings attached. No, I need strings attached." You can't help but blink owlishly back at him as you try to digest this information. You pegged him for a wham-bam-thank you ma'am but I'm never calling you again type of man. "Call me crazy, I mean this is totally out of my typical wheelhouse but I realized that I was jealous when you said you were on a date right before you first came into the shop. If we're going to do this I want strings attached. Call it whatever you want, but whatever this is it's just me and you babe. No one else."

   "No one else on either side?" Greedy, selfish, but fair. You're over the moon that for whatever reason he's just the same as you. At least, when it comes to this situation. God, you want him. All of him. You want to sink deeper into this, drown yourself in him, lose yourself in all that he has to offer you. That's dangerous. But you don't care, you're already too far gone. You can feel your stomach tighten, mind halting as he stalks closer to you, his breath hot on your ear as one hand tightens around your waist and pulls you closer to him.

   "No one else on either side." His eyes travel down from your eyes to your lips before slowly wandering back up. God, you just want him to kiss you already.

   "Deal." Why do you feel like you might have just made a pact with the devil? And why is it that you still really don't care, as long as it means you get to finally taste him again. Fucking hell, you're pretty sure all of your sanity flies right out the window when he's involved. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, just a few centimeters away from your own. So close, so close. It's like time has stilled. As if the world has fallen away and yet again all that's left is the two of you. Falling, falling. Sinking. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Into a chasm of euphoric insanity of pleasure.

   Slowly, painfully slowly, you move your hand to his cheek the other hand winding up the firm planes of his chest. That surprises you, you thought he'd be more delicate. He certainly seems delicately built at first glance, but looks can be deceiving. His eyes never leave your own, his sights set squarely on you. Refusing to look away. Refusing to run. A deal has been made with the devil, and the devil is letting you know you aren't about to leave his crosshairs. "Kiss me, Yoongi." That signature lazy half-smile of his appears for just a fraction before his lips are on yours. He's spicy, ashy. That damn clove has your toes curling, sighing, melting into his touch. Fucking hell. You're already wet, thighs trembling, hands curling his shirt into a ball, as he licks into your mouth.

   The beat of your heart sounds painfully loud in your eardrums. Every sound is fuzzy, staticky as if you're still on the phone. Your own groans almost sound distant, his sighs sound so soft. So content. It feels like the two of you have been dunked in molasses. Time has slowed down for both of you. Moving so slowly, tenderly. Almost as if you're starstruck lovers who have just one night to cherish each other. As if you've known each other's bodies forever but have never been allowed to explore them. It feels like a fragile spell, moving too quickly might break the magic and the devil will run home with his nefarious intentions long forgotten. His hand grips tighter for a moment before wandering down, palming and massaging your ass before picking up your legs and wrapping them around his waist. He takes the small change in stature to detach from your lips, both of you watching with glossy eyes as a thing string of saliva breaks. "You're beautiful (y/n)." A hoarse whisper, kind words from a man with a crass mouth. It makes you want to be feral, it makes you want to slow down. It makes you want everything. Nothing but him. He drives you to the brink of insanity with all these diametrically opposing wants and needs.

   A long low moan tumbles out of your lips at the feeling of his tongue gliding across the prominent vein of your neck before sinking his lips down. Soft petals of pinks and red appear in his wake, a trail of cherry blossoms in spring-time painted on your skin leading up to your ear before his teeth gently press down on your lobe. Shit. That feels way too good. Toes curling, fingers wrapping into his hair and his tongue tangles skillfully around your ear until suddenly he's off, his eyes boring back into your own as your breathing tries to slow back down. "Tell me what you want, (y/n). What do you want from me?"

   If any other man would have asked you that, with such a knife-sharp gaze, you surely would have clammed up. You've never been the vocal type. But you're too far lost in his eyes to care. There's a part of you that desperately hopes your own wants will please him, that he'll sink deeper with you into this chasm of pleasure with you. "I want to suck you off."

   The admission seems to catch him off guard for a moment, there's almost an innocence to the way he blinks back at you but that's gone quickly enough that you almost imagine if you really saw it or not. Replaced by a wolfish grin, desire bubbling across his features, infecting your skin, your core. As if the madness is catching. "Well well well. Who knew little Ms. Corporate had that in her? I can't say the idea of you on your knees hasn't been in my mind before. I also can't lie and say that it isn't one of the most exquisite things I've ever thought of. But I thought I told you that this was about you? About your pleasure? Are you sure that's what you want?" Your brain processes his words slowly, you're far too focused on his growing erection pressing against your inner thigh to think clearly and quickly.

   "I told you, Yoongi. I want you. I want you to lose yourself just as much as me." That's right, you want to watch him fall into pleasure just as you have. You want this madness, this desire, this sin to grip him tightly just as it has gripped you. You're greedy that way. And right now the greatest satisfaction you could receive is seeing him out of control, and you in it. You might be on your knees for him, but he'll be under your spell.

   You unlatch your legs slowly, trembling slightly as you lace your fingers through his and pull him along to your bedroom silently. All you can hear is the hum of the A/C and the sound of your shallow breathing when you push through the bedroom door and lead him to the edge of the bed. Before you can move, his hands are quickly pulling off your sweater and tugging down your leggings until you're left in just your underwear. "I'm not about to have you finally blow me and you're still dressed." His fingers gracefully move around your back, unlatching your bra and tossing it behind you. It's feverish, the look he sends you. All you can think of is that you want more. You want to see him look at you like that all day. As if you're the only woman he wants. As if he needs you. You can't even respond, too lost in the way he looks at you like he wants to devour you whole. So instead you move forward a step, tugging his t-shirt over his head and staring for a second at his bare skin.

   He has those skinny boy abs, the kind that you always felt weren't fair because it comes naturally from stupid fast metabolisms and not hard work. But you aren't going to complain right now, not when he looks so good and he's yours. All yours. Whatever this is, he made a deal, no one else. You can be as greedy as you want because he's just the same. You sink down onto your knees, your eyes locking onto his as you unbuckle his belt and toss it off to the side. You aren't sure if it's just your hopeful imagination or if you really do hear his breath catch in his throat as you slowly unzip his jeans before letting them fall to the floor. He's a briefs kind of guy, thank god. You've always hated how boxers look on men. He takes a moment to shuffle out of his pants completely before prying off his tight black briefs, and your mouth instinctively waters at the sight.

   He's thick, veiny, and you're happy to report that he keeps everything well-groomed. Thank god, no pubes will be stuck in your teeth tonight. Heat rises up to your cheeks at the way he looks at you with carnal anticipation. Suddenly you aren't so sure about all your earlier internal bravado about being the one to make him sink deeper into pleasure with you. He's looking at you like a predator stalking his prey. As if a meal has just presented itself to him on a silver platter. But you'll change that, you want nothing more than to watch that mask fall off. You want him to break. To fall. To tremble underneath your touch the way you shake with anticipation and euphoria under his watchful gaze.

   It's with an unwavering determination that you finally grasp his dick in your hand, staring up at him as you pepper soft kisses around his tip. He's salty, tangy, drooling with precum. Delicious. Sinful. Perfect. You refuse to move your gaze off of his eyes, you want to watch him. You want to see how he falls apart. It only takes one long lick from the base to the tip to start seeing the signs, the way his Adam's apple bobs and his gaze clouds over ever so slightly. It's minute, but it's there. God, you want him. More than you've ever wanted another person. Greedily, in hopes of breaking him, you pull him into your mouth. Inch by inch, until your nose is pressed firmly against his dark patch of hair and his hand is fast to wrap around your hair and grips you tightly until a slight sting can be felt in your scalp. You didn't know you were into that, but the sensation leaves your core throbbing. Aching. Shit. You pull back up, licking around the tip with one hand jerking in slow steady motions as the other one holds his balls in your palm. Rolling them gently until you finally dive back down. There's a dull ache in your jaw already, and you have to steady your breathing to take him whole. He's just long enough to reach past your uvula and activate your gag reflex if you aren't careful. But the way his thighs flex and the guttural groans you hear are enough to have you wanting more. It's beautiful, the way he unravels. Just for you. Only you. You made a deal with the devil after all.

   "Holy fuck, you're good at this." His head is tilted back, the veins on free arm popping as it curls into a fist. You can see a thin veil of sweat covering his chest and his breathing sounds uneven, small groans and grunts breaking the rhythm. It spurs you on, moaning slightly at the way his dick pulses and throbs in your mouth. "God, (y/n). You're too fucking hot. It's not fair, shit, how someone can look that good. You look like you were made to be on your knees, fuck. God, you don't even know how much I've thought about this. I've been like a goddamn high school kid, jerking off to the thought of you every night." You finally close your eyes, concentrating harder on his words and his dick. Shit, have you ever had a guy be this vocal before? It's such a turnon. God, you want him. You want him so badly you feel like you could burst. It's not fair, how even when he starts falling apart, his composure finally going out the window, you're just a bigger mess. Both mentally and physically. You feel like you could wring a gallon out of your panties, your thighs are already drenched. You can't remember the last time you were this wet. Have you ever been this wet? Fuck, what is Yoongi doing to you?

    His thighs tremble and flex in spasms, his groans increasing and you open your eyes back up to see his sight's back on you. He looks so fucked out, hair a mess and cheeks flushed. You wish you could take a picture of this. No man should be this pretty, it almost isn't fair. You can't help but moan as his hand yanks your head further down before his grip relaxes. "Shit, shit, sorry, but I'm going to, fuck, cum. So if you don't want it-" You manage to silence him by putting his hand back on your head and slacking your jaw. A silent permission to use it as he wants. He understands your nonverbal command instantly. He gives a dark chuckle as he shakes his head. "Fuck. You really are too good to me, (y/n)." He doesn't waste time, nor is he gentle. You aren't sure if he's too far gone to think about your gag reflex or if he doesn't care, but it would be a lie to say that it doesn't turn you on. The way he uses you, the way he loses himself in thoughts of nothing but the pleasure your mouth can bring him. It isn't long before he's unraveling, groans turn into the most beautiful moans you've ever heard. Husky, deep, feral. And then you finally taste it, thick sticky white ropes of his salty, tangy cum. He stills for a moment, groaning as he softens inside of you before pulling out slowly, watching intently as he smears cum across your lips. "Be a good girl and swallow for me."

   You blink up at him, pausing for a moment before pursing your lips and swallowing everything back as his thumb swipes the remnants from your lips before forcing it inside. This time you really can hear the hitch in his breath as your tongue swirls around the pad of his thumb before swallowing back again and opening your mouth up as if to show that all is clean. There's a dark chuckle from him, but the look in his eyes doesn't reflect that sentiment. He's looking at you fondly, warmly. As if you didn't just perform one of the lewdest acts of your life for him simply because it made you melt when he called you a good girl. "Well would you look at that, you really cleaned up, didn't you?" His words give you a thought, and you reach out impulsively to follow through with it. Your lips latch onto his now softening cock, licking gently, slowly so as to not overstimulate what's now very sensitive skin as you clean off every last drop. You can feel Yoongi squirm, his hands are quick to grab your hair again and pull you up to your feet with a force that has you moaning. He's certainly stronger than he looks. "Jesus Christ, you're going to be the fucking death of me."

   Before you can even think of responding his lips are on yours. Distantly, somewhere in your sex addled thoughts, you can feel some sick sense of euphoria at the thought of him tasting his own release on your tongue. He's so different from any other man you've ever had. When had sex stopped being fun and became a chore to keep your partner satisfied? You can't remember the last time you felt this much pleasure, this much satisfaction. And you haven't even been touched yet. Shit. You're in for a wild ride with Min Yoongi. "You know, for normally being a mouthy little thing you haven't said very much." You blink up at him, confused at the loss of contact with his mouth, instinctually seeking the warmth of his skin as you curl up closer to him for a moment. Truth be told you've never been very vocal. You aren't sure what to say, where to start. But you don't want to say that and get laughed at by him, or worse yet, called a prude. But then he shoots you that look, the one that feels like he can see straight to your soul and suddenly you're talking.

   "I've never been very vocal. It's embarrassing." You look away as you speak, your cheeks heating up at your admission. You wait for the laughter, for the teasing, but instead, all you feel is his hand cupping your chin and forcing you to look at him.

   "What's so embarrassing about having your partner know what you want? What you like? I want to please you, I want to watch you fall apart. I mean for christ's sake you just licked my cum off my dick without a second thought. As if it was the most natural thing in the world for you. It was the hottest goddamn thing I've ever seen. I want to make sure that you feel just as much pleasure. So tell me, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to eat you out? Finger you? Fuck you? How do you want me to fuck you? Do you want to ride me, do you want me to take you from behind, do you want me to take your ass, or fuck you raw? What exactly do you want?" His free hand ghosts over your body as he holds your face firmly in place. You can't look away, even if you wanted to. It's like he's put you under a spell. Fuck. God, you want him. More than you want anything else. If you were locked in a room with this man for an entire day you'd use every single second to explore his body, to have him explore yours.

   "I want you to eat me out." You're rewarded with a Cheshire cat grin, he looks like a villain who's just been handed the world. And suddenly your thoughts are running back to what he said on the phone. *'I'm not a good guy.'* God, why does that have you so hot and bothered all of sudden? It's like he was put on this earth just to wreck you.

   "Good girl, was that so hard?" Before you can respond he's pushing you onto the bed and prying your underwear off. "Jesus Christ, I don't think I've ever seen panties that wrecked before. Seems little Ms. Corporate enjoys being on her knees. Not that I'm complaining, I consider it an honor to see you enjoy something so filthy with me." You pull yourself up a bit on your arms to see him better, and you tighten at the sight of him prying your legs apart. He's looking at you like you're a delicacy, the finest meal that's ever been presented and he's a starving man. "Do you like that, do you like when I talk to you like this?"

   God, more than you ever thought you would. "Yeah." He chuckles, blinking up at you and shaking his head before hooking your legs over his shoulders and dragging you to the edge of the bed.

   "Another lukewarm response. Maybe I should just stop." He's teasing you, at least you're hoping he is. Because he's so close now, you can feel the warmth of his breath on your clit. But he isn't moving, he's just staying there. His eyes locked on yours as if waiting for more. Christ. He's waiting for you to respond. And you can tell by the amused look on his face that he could wait all night if need be.

   "I..." You pause, take a deep breath and close your eyes. It's too hard to say it while he's looking at you like that. "It turns me on when you tell me things like that."

   "Things like what?" Son of a motherfucker, he's really not going to let you off the hook. He's enjoying this way too much. Fucking sadistic little shit. But the annoyance has you riled up enough to be defiant, to say it.

   "I like it when you call me a good girl. I like it when you call me filthy. I like it when you praise me. I like it when you tell me what you want to do to me. It makes me feel wanted." You almost want to cry, it makes you feel so vulnerable to admit this to him. It's strange, how just moments ago you were so confident and now you suddenly feel so unsure. But when you finally open your eyes back up the look he's giving you makes everything feel alright. Like it's safe. It's safe to be honest with him. To be vulnerable. As if he'll protect you, hold you. You don't know if he actually will, but when he looks at you so tenderly, so lovingly, it's impossible to think that he won't. But it's the smile he gives you, all gums and pearly whites, that make it worth it. Christ, you're flying a million miles an hour on this emotional rollercoaster.

   "What a good girl. You are wanted, so wanted it's terrifying." Before you can even think about the meaning behind his words, the subtext in the empty spaces, his mouth is latched onto your clit. The sensation brings a jolt of electricity up your spine, your legs latching around his face as a long garbled moan drags out of your mouth. Shit, when's the last time you were touched like this?

   "Holy fuck." You can feel him smile, and the low chuckle he gives you reverberates through your body. You aren't sure what to focus on, the tantalizing image of his face buried in your wet heat or the sensation of his tongue as it moves in hungry circles around your clit. Just as you grow used to the dizzying, tingling feeling of his mouth you feel one finger slowly ease its way inside of you. It's odd, how frenzied his mouth is, but how gentle his fingers are. It's easy to sink into this feeling, to relax under his touch. God, he's good. Just as he works in a second finger you can feel yourself unraveling. "Oh my god, don't stop. Please, please don't stop." You've never cum this fast before, but the release is imminent. So close. Maybe it's because you've been so aroused for so long that even the slightest of touches turn you into a mess. You're just over the horizon, legs trembling around him and toes curling as needy whines leave your lips. His tongue moves faster, fingers scissoring into you until all you can see is blinding white. It's almost an out of body experience, everything feels too intense to process. Your body writhing under Yoongi, trying to fight his hold around your legs as your hips lift up and your moans tumble out one after another. It's blinding. Brilliant. It makes you feel whole again. As if all is right with the world when you're here underneath him. But maybe that's just your delirious post-orgasm brain talking.

   Somewhere, it almost feels like it's on another planet, you can hear Yoongi cooing, smiling as he looks down at you with your essence still smeared across his face and fingers still lodged deep inside your pussy. "What a good girl. Do you want to taste yourself?"

   You blink back up, still slightly out of sorts as you nod slowly before finally managing to say, "Yes, please." If you were more coherent you would have probably lost consciousness at the look Yoongi gives, drenched in desire. His nefarious intentions are written on his face. The epitome of deviancy. Sin incarnate. It feels so empty when his fingers pull out with a pop, and both of you watch with rapt attention as he pulls his fingers apart and watches the strings of your release break. God, you always thought he had beautiful fingers but it should be illegal for them to look that good while covered in your essence. You lean up on your forearms, opening your mouth and watching as his fingers slowly enter your mouth. You'd do this a thousand times if it meant getting to see that look on Yoongi's face, the way he watches you with complete and utter satisfaction. As if the only thing in the world he wants to see is you at your lewdest. The guttural groan that leaves his mouth sends waves of pleasure through you as his fingers leave your mouth with a pop.

   "Jesus, you really are going to be the death of me. Or that pretty little mouth of yours will be."

   "At least you'll die happy." You shrug, laughing at the glare he shoots you before giving you a gummy smile. It's odd how comfortable it is to be around him. As if everything is right with the world and the two of you aren't in the middle of outright debauchery that involves you consuming a hell of a lot of cum. It shouldn't be legal for him to give you such a warm and fuzzy smile.

   "Nah, I won't die happy until I've fucked you." He really is the king at giving you emotional whiplash. At this admission you look down to see that he's hard again, leaking precum once more. You've never thought a dick was pretty before, but his is. A dusty shade of pink, thick, twitching in the air with need. You can feel your own core pulse with need as you look at him. Fuck, you want him. More than you've ever wanted anything. Who knew you'd still be this greedy, this needy, after already achieving what was arguably the best orgasm of your life.

   "Then fuck me." The words come out of your mouth in a low timbre, each syllable dripping with want. Yoongi doesn't verbally respond for once, instead, he just repositions you, gently leaning your head against the pillow as he shuffles your thighs over his hips. You can feel the velvety soft tip of his cock tap against your clit, and the soft sensation has you sighing underneath him.

   "Are you sure that's what you really want babe?"

   "I want you to fuck me, Min Yoongi. Please, fuck me." For a moment he pauses, his Adam's apple bobbing. You swear that for a half-second he almost looks like he's contemplating everything as if he's questioning the validity of the situation before he's spitting into his palm and wetting his dick.

   "I won't be gentle. That's not in my vocabulary."

   "I don't want you to be gentle. I want you to fuck me, make me see stars." You reach out to touch his cheek, your hand wandering down his chest for a moment before gripping his dick in your own hand and guiding it to your greedy entrance. He watches for a second before taking over, snapping his hips into yours and sliding in all the way in one go. The burn is tantalizing, the stretch leaves you feeling utterly full and before you can even think of relaxing fully into it he's snapping his hips again.

   "Well Ms. Corporate, you can't say I didn't warn you. I want to see you beg, cry, scream my name. I want to see you fall apart on my cock, over and over again tonight." He emphasizes by picking up pace, his hips smacking against your skin with loud thwacks. It's disorienting, tantalizing, the way he fucks into you. Each time he's fully inside you you can almost touch the stars. You swear his dick is made of magic, the way it takes you out of your own overgrown thoughts and into the present. All you can think of is him, of the pleasure he brings you. It's like your nerves are on fire, it's almost pathetic how quickly you melt underneath him. Teeth clacking, his name spilling out in a broken mantra of whines and moans. Thank god he said he wanted strings attached because all you can think of is that once won't be enough with him. Shit, you're pretty sure you could fuck him every day and you'd still want more. So greedy, so needy. Just for him. Only for him. The devil has you in his crosshairs, but you don't want to leave. "Look at you, already falling apart." Such crass praise. You can feel yourself pulse around him at his words, and the moan that leaves him has your back arching. You wish you could turn his moans into a song, you'd play it on repeat. Such a beautifully filthy sound.

   You can feel another release looming over you when he picks your hips up and fucks into you harder. Christ, how does he have the stamina for this? Not that you're complaining. "Yoongi I'm going to, fuuuuck, right there, keep going, right, fuck!" Somehow he seems to understand your garbled incoherent rambling, because he grins down as he fucks into you harder, pulling you into a heated kiss that you try hard to reciprocate in between broken moans. It's electric. It burns you up from the inside out. It raises goosebumps across your flesh and has your eyes rolling the back of your head as you writhe around him. If Yoongi wanted to ruin you then he's already won. You're positive that sex will never feel this good with anyone else. He slows down for just a moment, fucking into you shallowly as you try to get your breathing back to normal. It's hard to do anything though, you feel like you're floating on a cloud. As if your consciousness is only barely connected to your physical body.

   "You still with me, babe?" You can't even look up at him, it takes a painful amount of effort to just nod. You can hear his own groans and grunts better with your eyes closed. What a sinful symphony, skin against skin, mewls of pleasure from two lovers, or at the very least strings attached deal makers, lost in the throes of passion. He twists you underneath him until you're on all fours, shakey legs barely keeping you up and arms failing as your face plants into the pillow and your ass hangs in the air. He gives one test swat to your ass, and your scream of satisfaction and clenching pussy must be the answer to his unsaid question because his hand comes down harder this time. Surely leaving a pink park in its wake, and before you can process a third loud smack rings through the air. Jesus christ mother mary, you could drown a man right now with how wet he has you. Before you can even say anything he's fucking into you again, taking you from behind as his hands twist into your hair and pull you up until your back is flush to his chest. The sting in your scalp has you clenching around him, you're a mewling drooling mess at this point. And you're too far gone to care, euphoria is the only thought on your mind.

   "You've been such a good girl for me. Do you think  you can cum again, do you want to cum all over my cock for me?" A stuttered yes hangs in the air for just a moment before his mouth latches onto your neck and his hand leaves your hair to tug at one taught nipple while the other dives lower until it's rubbing circles around your clit. Yoongi isn't the only one who would die happy after this, but you can't seem to get the words out. Shit, you can't seem to get any words out. It's taking everything in you to just breathe at this point. Every sensation is too much for you to handle, you're far too sensitive after your last orgasm but you're greedy. You want more. You want to please, you want nothing more than to be good for him. Especially if that means that you'll find only the greatest of pleasures in the process. This third and final orgasm has you spasming, bucking against his chest as broken cries wail out in unison with his own sweet groans of pleasure. God, you wish you weren't in this position, you wish you could keep your eyes open. You wanted to see his face when he came, but then again, there'll be a next time. Won't there? All yours after all. Greedy. You never thought you'd be this greedy.

   You can still feel him bucking into you shallowly before finally moving you back onto a pillow and pulling out carefully. You can feel exhaustion seeping deep into your bones. It takes more effort than you want to admit just to roll over and look up at Yoongi, but it's worth the exertion to see his face. His pale skin is flushed to a pretty petal pink and shining with a thin sheen of perspiration, damp hair sticking to his forehead and his eyes are glazed over in a state of numb content. Handsome doesn't really fit him, he's more pretty you would say. Beautiful really. But you won't say that. You figure most dudes wouldn't take too kindly to being called something so feminine.  So instead you just watch him quietly, drink in the sight of him as he ruffles his hair and shuffles over to your bathroom to clean up. He has a surprisingly nice ass. Christ, you really do like everything about him.

   "Do you have any baby wipes?" His voice sounds hoarse, and a part of you wants to get up and grab a cup of water for him but you're too tired to move.

   "Yeah, in the cupboard closest to the toilet I think I should have some." You hear him rummaging around before he comes out with one wipe and silently cleans you up. It feels oddly domestic, and somehow that makes you feel more awkward than when you were having sex. Christ, you've never been good at these kinds of things. But when you look at Yoongi, the way he just hums to himself as he wipes away any last remnants that have trickled onto your thighs, it's hard to not have your heart melt. He's like the human form of catnip for you, everything feels upside down and yet strangely addictive with him around. "Thanks. Are you going to spend the night?"

   He pauses for a moment, his movements halting and his eyes not meeting your own. That's okay, you're used to this. You shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. "If you're okay with that, that would be nice. But I tend to sleep late, I don't want to bother you if you have to get up early."

   Well, that certainly wasn't what you were expecting. You can't help but blink up at him, words failing before manic uncontrollable giggles come tumbling out of you. You finally manage to stop long enough to wipe some stray tears out of the corner of your eyes before finally responding. "Nah, I set my own hours, we're good."

   You watched him take you in curiously, a small flicker of a smile ghosting his lips before he turned around to rummage through his jeans and grab a lighter and cigarette, about to light up before he turns around and raises an eyebrow, a silent question.

   "Go ahead, but I don't have any ashtrays so you can use a cup or something." You point to the empty water cup by your bed before slipping under the covers, watching him take a deep drag and shut his eyes. The silence would probably feel unbearable with anyone else, but for some reason, it's soothing with him. You have absolutely no clue what you've gotten yourself into with him. Strings firmly attached to whatever the fuck this is, as per his rules. And yours too. You did agree. You want to break this all down, pick it apart and analyze this entire rendezvous piece by piece to make sense of it. You've never been this type of girl before. Impulsive, brash, hedonistic, quick. That's the only way you can describe this. No you were always slow to act, but quick to think until Min Yoongi snarked his way into your heart. And yet it feels so right. Shit. What does that mean? You wish you could think about this more, but the moment you feel his long fingers brushing your hair soothingly you're lulled into sleep.

   That night you dream of his lips on yours, sweaty skin sticking to sheets and the orchestral sound of his groans mixing with slick skin hitting skin. Christ, you're so screwed. Having sex with him isn't enough, not even in your dreams. You aren't sure why he's so all-consuming, but one thing is for certain: he isn't the only one with nefarious intentions.

[ilovemygaydad]

punk!patton is adopted by single parent logan part 2/?

part one - part three - part four - part five - ao3 version - masterlist (includes asks)

pairings: eventual moxiety, eventual logince

warnings: swearing, lots of emotions, anxiety, worry, panic attack mentions, patton’s an asshole (both intentionally and not), a tiny bit of accidental ableism, hurt feelings, food mentions, possibly something else

***feel free to send me questions or comments! i’ll answer them to the best of my ability, and everything is tagged under “punk!patton au”

here we go babey

for the entirety of his week-long suspension from school, patton just contemplates these icky, weird feelings that he’s having

because he thought that he’d gotten rid of them, but the way that he tried to protect virgil obviously proves something different....

before that day, he’d never tried to protect anyone before

it was patton against the world through and through 

but then this... this boy in these pastel clothes shows up, and suddenly patton wants to protect him!

like what the fuck?!

he decides to pretend that these emotions don’t exist because feelings are too much fucking work

so he goes back to school like nothing happened

which goes totally fine because virgil doesn’t attempt to talk to him for the entirety of their first block

when the bell rings, however... virgil pretty much slams his hands on patton’s desk before he can get up, leaning in with stern expression twisting his normally soft features

(which is only accentuated by the still-fading black eye that virgil mostly covered up with concealer...)

“are you okay?”

and patton is just taken aback by how forward virgil is being--especially since he’s wearing a light blue skater skirt and gray long-sleeved crop top, which is not the epitome of sternness, and pat stutters out a shy “yeah” before virgil goes off on a tiny rant

“that’s good! i was really worried that you’d gotten in a ton of trouble with your dad for swearing at those parents, and i had no way to know if you were okay, so i kind of freaked out for the whole week. and, like, i’m really sorry that i got involved because it ended up getting everyone in super big trouble--especially you--and that kind of sucks. so, yeah, sorry.”

patton hadn’t been listening since the word “worried,” as he’d become entranced by virgil’s color-shifting lip gloss. he sees pinks and blues and purples as virgil talks, and he leans in just slightly to get a closer look

and it’s absolutely NOT because virgil’s lips look so pretty and soft pshhhhhh no

virgil notices that patton’s staring at him with furrowed brows, and he realizes that he’s looking at the lip gloss he’s wearing, and he sort of

freaks out...?

he flinches back and covers his mouth with his hands in one of his familiar bouts of self-doubt

“why are you staring at my lip gloss? does it look bad?” he rushes

and patton’s like

????????? what?????

no???????

and in an unexpected turn of truthfulness, patton says, “no, it looks really pretty.”

and for some reason, there’s a weird, fluttery feeling in patton’s chest when virgil takes his hands away from his face and smiles

[john mulaney voice] now we don’t have time to unpack all of that!

luckily enough, patton is saved from having to deal with the emotions when the warning bell for passing time rings, and both teenagers rush to scoop up their things and go to their next classes

even luckier, patton doesn’t have his next three classes with virgil, so he doesn’t have to think about his--gross--emotions

but then

lunch time rolls around

and patton hadn’t prepared for how absolutely fucking awful that mess would be!

as soon as he walks into the cafeteria, he’s accosted by so many noises and smells

he tries to leave, but the lunch monitor tells him that the kids aren’t allowed to leave once they enter until the end bell rings, which is such bullshit, but patton really doesn’t need another tick on his permanent record

clutching the brown bagged lunch in his fist, he scans the cafeteria for somewhere to sit and finds virgil sitting at an otherwise empty table near the trash cans

with a groan, patton makes his way over and plops himself across from virgil, who squeaks at the sudden companion and nearly drops his phone to the floor in surprise

“do you not have a lunch?” patton asks, choosing to ignore the fumble

“ah, no. i can’t eat the school lunches because i have celiac disease, so i usually just sit here on my phone”

with probably more force than necessary, patton tore the top off of his lunch bag and pulled out an apple, holding it out to virgil as he ordered, “eat it”

virgil hesitated for a second, but ultimately took the apple and bit into it, wincing as lip gloss got all over the skin

patton smiles gently and says a quick thanks to virgil before digging into his own lunch

they exchange a bit of banter, and all is going well and good until patton gets curious

“why do you dress like that?”

virgil freezes in his spot, and an emotion flashes on his face that patton deciphers just a few moments too late

“i--i’m sorry, i’ve got to go!” virgil mutters, leaving the half-eaten apple on the table and running from the cafeteria, ignoring the angered shouts of the lunch monitor

patton only spends a few seconds staring at the doors that virgil ran out of before he turns back to his lunch and shrugs. it’s not like he was really that into making friends at school. and he was already planning on sitting in the library for lunch

he didn’t care

he really didn’t

he didn’t!

patton pretends not to notice the fact that virgil’s name is called in several of his last few classes, but the quiet boy isn’t there

later that night after dinner, logan is sitting at the kitchen table grading some homework assignments from his first graders

“grading” being used very lightly. he was mostly looking to see if they actually followed the minimal instructions on their writing sheet

but then the doorbell rang, which was confusing for logan because he wasn’t expecting any visitors

he walks the few meters to the door and opens it

standing outside is a man in a slouchy hat and very... colorful clothes

“hi, are you logan summers?” the man asks in an odd accent that logan can’t place

“yes, and you are...?”

“roman sanders. my son, virgil, goes to the same school as patton”

and logan is internally going oh shit what the hell did patton do now

on the outside, he simply says “do you want to come in? it’s a bit chilly, and i’d rather not cause a draft.”

roman nods and steps inside, and logan closes the door. he leads his “guest” to the living room where they can talk in comfort.

“did patton do something to virgil?” logan blurted out as soon as they were seated

“sorry, can you repeat that? you were talking too fast for me to read your lips.” roman gave a lighthearted laugh and took off his hat to reveal a mess of brown hair that didn’t quite cover the bright red hearing aids that wrapped around his ears

which would explain why his speech was different. he couldn’t actually hear what the sounds were supposed to be like

logan felt like an idiot

“my apologies. i just asked if patton did something to upset virgil. he isn’t the most... gentle person.”

roman’s smile turns to a grimace “virgil called me in the middle of the day to ask me to pick him up from school. i was lucky enough that all of my patients had scheduled for the morning, and i was able to get to the school without feeling guilty about cancelling someone’s session last minute. when i got to the school, virgil was sobbing. virgil likes wearing gender non-conforming clothing, and apparently patton asked why he liked to dress the way he did, and it spooked the poor kid. i was hoping to clear some things up so virgil would feel better.” (roman is a therapist)

logan

well

he was kinda pissed

patton of all people shouldn’t be judging others for dressing against the norm, since he did the exact same thing!

he quickly excused himself and dragged (figuratively, though he would have resorted to fireman carrying the teenager if he’d refused) patton to the living room to talk to roman

introductions happened blah blah blah and roman asks what patton did to upset virgil

and patton’s like “i was curious about his clothing style????”

roman kind of just narrows his eyes at patton and says “i want to know exactly what you asked before i make an assumption on what to do. words can trigger emotional responses depending on the person, especially with added influence of tone.”

logan will never admit that he’s surprised at how intelligent this man is

and how he’s a little bit attracted to him

and patton being patton said, “i just asked, ‘why do you dress like that’ and he got all upset! it’s not my fault he got offended by my curiosity”

logan pinches the bridge of his nose, and roman pulls out his phone

“we’re calling virgil, and you’re going to apologize to him”

roman starts a facetime call with virgil, and signs “hey, starlight! i have someone here who wants to talk to you.”

virgil both audibly says and signs “who?”

it sounds like he’d been crying

roman turns the phone so that it’s facing patton, who just crosses his arms and turns his face so that he doesn’t have to see virgil

“patton,” logan says in his Dad Voice. “apologize”

and then patton glances at the screen and sees virgil’s red nose and the tear tracks down his cheeks and how bad virgil looks, and he breaks

his voice is quiet and shy as he says “i’m really sorry for upsetting you. i was just curious as to why you chose such a unique style in an often unforgiving environment. i should have worded my question better”

patton peeks over at virgil, who seems to contemplate the apology for a few seconds before saying “i forgive you” with the tiniest baby smile that makes patton’s heart melt

and they both kind of seem to forget their dads are there until the phone is turned back to roman, who took the smiles and not speaking as a cue to take the call back

“i love you” he signs to virgil

“love you too,” virgil says (and presumably signs) “but please don’t hunt down every person who hurts me and do this. you’re lucky that i didn’t catch you, dad, because i would have kicked your ass before you would have left the house”

roman smiles, and patton lets out a surprised laugh because he didn’t think that someone as cute as virgil could physically swear

“dad, can you give the phone over to patton and let me talk to him in private for a few minutes?”

roman hands the phone over and follows logan into the next room (where logan definitely isn’t eavesdropping and relaying all of the information to roman)

“so,” virgil starts as soon as patton gives him an all clear “i wanted to explain to you why i dress the way i do even though it’s really simple: i just like the soft fabrics and colors. they make me feel much happier than when i tried to fit in with the other kids by wearing hypermasculine clothing.”

“that’s valid,” patton says because he doesn’t really know what else to say

“why do you dress in all dark colors and edgy clothing?”

patton hadn’t thought about virgil reversing the question on him, but he feels compelled to answer

so he does

he talks about his life at the orphanage and how he shut himself off from the world. he knew that people didn’t like him for his emotions, so he just tried storing most of them away and pushing others out of his personal space. he lashed out so easily because he was lonely but didn’t know how to properly express his emotions

and by the end of the explanation, virgil is a little teary, and he says “patton, you are far more lovable than you think. i’m sorry that the world told you otherwise”

and now patton is crying a bit, and they kind of just sit there for a second and take in their emotions

for once, patton doesn’t try to mash them down

the parents come in a few minutes later when the kids calmed down, and roman took his leave, but patton doesn’t forget to say goodbye to virgil first

and he’s actually kind of looking forward to seeing virgil the next day, even though he won’t admit it

to be continued in.... PART THREE

okay so here’s the thing fam... so many of you asked to be tagged that i don’t know if i’m going to be able to fit everyone. literally. SO if your name isn’t on here, or you notice someone whose name isn’t on here that asked, i’m sorry, but i literally can’t do anything about it. it will take me years to tag everyone even with infinite tags. the amount of love this has received is great, but i am human

tag list: @residentanchor @eeveeawesome @xionical @absolutesandersidestrash @stormcrawler75 @musikasworld @ironwoman359 @a-weirdo-with-a-computer @thegaypotatoroyalty707 @darkrainbow333 @ravenclawunicorn1 @noahlovescoffee @whymustibedraggedintofandomhell @romansleftshoulderpad @still-waiting-for-cookies @emounicorn2006 @lana--22 @angels-ofthe-sea @demonickittykat @lonelysoul43 @the-virgil-mary @five-second-cookies @noisywolfbatbakery @band-be-boss-blog @heck-im-lost @lamp-calm-sanders @patton-e @knightofbloodcancer @cloudchaser7 @really-sleep-deprived-nerd @era-eclipsed @khadij-al-kubra @anxiousmorality @are-you-really-sure-about-that @today-only-happens-once @notalwaysthevillian @backatthebein @sunshineandteddybears @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @emo-sanders-sides-loving-unicorn @dodos-in-damnation @some-lost-meme-boi @dead4sevenyears @spookyingarbageisland @the-poison-apple-of-art @radioactivehelena @the-melody-of-eliza @im-a-mess-aaaaaa @whycantihavemorethan32characters 

[johnny-and-dora]

tell me you can’t bear a room that i’m not in

“I came to see what was taking so long - did you tidy up in here?” He’s wearing her blanket like a superhero cape and he’s got that stupid little smirk on his face and strictly platonic thoughts are few and far between.

or, the one where amy decides showing up unannounced at her flu-ridden best friend's/totally platonic co-worker's apartment to take care of him is a totally platonic activity to do. (late s2 pining)

for the wonderful erica @startofamoment <3

-

Amy can’t help it. She’s worried.

She’s been trying her best to fill in her paperwork with her usual diligence, even making rare use of her favourite fountain pen in the hopes it would set her back on track – but, frustratingly, her head is completely somewhere else today. No matter how hard she tries, the unsolved arson case sitting in front of her can’t captivate her attention like the unbearable abnormality of the desk opposite her can.

She glances at Jake’s empty seat and feels a twinge of nerves flutter in her stomach.

Amy’s been worrying about him a lot, lately. She’s barely seen him in these last few weeks, and between him getting his heart broken, being kidnapped and then being run over by a car (in that order), she’s had more than a lot to be worried about.

That being said, she also knows that she’s being irrational. Not everyone has an aversion to using up their sick days like she does – it would probably take a direct order from a superior officer to send her home even if she was on her deathbed. She’s immune to diseases most people haven’t even heard of, and she has a stronger immune system than everyone she knows.

But Jake’s not “everyone”. She goes through the facts she knows like she’s trying to solve a case - He loves his job as much, maybe even more than she does, and he hobbled into work with three cracked ribs and three broken toes a few weeks ago like it was nothing. He’s as ridiculously stubborn as she is so he usually needs to be forced to go home. He never takes time off.

The point is, his absence is just weird, and not because there’s no one around  to make fun of her or throw paper aeroplanes at her or send her that stupid video of a screaming sheep. She hasn’t seen him in a while now, and she’s worried. She’s allowed to be worried.

It’s a normal thing for a friend to be worried about another friend and their wellbeing. Completely platonically. As a friend.

Amy frowns.

“Is something the matter, Santiago?”

“Captain!” She says, practically jumping out of her seat to greet him. Holt’s face is, as usual, unreadable, though she could swear she detects a hint of concern. That or he just won a radio contest.

“No, Sir. Everything is tip-top. Ship-shape. A-Okay.” As usual, her mouth keeps going without her brain’s approval - she inwardly curses herself, glad that Jake isn’t actually around if only because he can’t see her embarrassing herself in front of the Captain again.

“I was just wondering, do you know where Jake…Detective Peralta is today?” - She asks, trying to sound as professional and nonchalant as possible – “We’re meant to be working the Mulligan arson together, and I…” Amy trails off, not sure how that sentence was supposed to end. Luckily Holt just nods slightly, which she assumes is her cue to stop letting words fall aimlessly out of her mouth.

“Detective Peralta called in sick this morning. I am sure he will be joining us again tomorrow. I assume you can continue your work in his absence?”

“Great. I mean, yes. Good. Thank you, Captain.” She sits back down as he returns to his office, sighing deeply, dismissing her anxieties the best she can. Her beloved paperwork is a welcome distraction, especially as she can actually fill it in without distraction from her desk partner for once.

Somewhat inevitably, though, the worry still lingers that he might actually be on his deathbed or something. She glances at her phone, wondering whether she should make sure he’s okay.

She dismisses the thought after a quiet moment of deliberation – smiling slightly despite herself, feeling her face flush a little. He can never know how worried she gets about him sometimes – Jake’s unbearable enough without any more ego boosts. She’d never hear the end of it.

Amy gets on with her work – but she’s still worried, and she’s still trying to deal with how much she misses him and how weird she should feel about that.

As if on cue, it can only be a few minutes later when her phone buzzes, like he was thinking the exact same thing. Maybe he can hear her thoughts.

God, she really hopes he can’t read her thoughts.

From: Jake Peralta, 11:24am [photo attached] i think i might actually be dying. bet ur gonna miss this beautiful face when i’m tragically struck down in the prime of life

Amy smiles at the photo of him - hair adorably chaotic and floofy, wrapped in a pitiful thin grey blanket, looking both very sorry for himself and slightly like ET. Something flutters in her chest again, but she doesn’t think it’s worry.

She bites her lip, sternly chiding herself for the feelings she doesn’t want suddenly weighing heavy in her gut, guilt and dread saturating the seemingly inevitable rush of endorphins she gets whenever he does something cute (which, recently, has been frustratingly frequently).

It’s not going to happen. Dating a cop ended pretty disastrously for her the last time, and she & Teddy didn’t have a share a desk. They’d be putting their professional relationship – even worse, their friendship – at risk, and it’s just not a risk she’s willing to take, especially as she can take Sophia as shiny, irritatingly beautiful proof that whatever feelings Jake had for her are now in the past.

Whatever might have happened between them has to stay as just that – a hypothetical. Some kind of alternate reality Amy finds herself wondering into far too regularly for the logical part of her brain’s liking.

They’re in such a good place right now. The last thing she wants is for that – or anything, really – to change. Even if she does stupid things like worry about him when he misses one day of work and laugh at his stupid jokes and smile whenever she sees his stupid face, like right now. She’s had these feelings before and they always go away after a little while.

To: Jake Peralta, 11:27am You look rough, pineapples. It’s weird without you here. It’s almost like work is actually getting done.

From: Jake Peralta, 11:28am rude santiago  i feel like a corpse that someone murdered, reanimated n then murdered again  my body is a temple how could it betray me like this??!

She exhales a little laugh, and, by instinct, tucks her hair behind her ears.

Of course, those feelings also have a tendency to come back, which makes her wonder if they ever really went away in the first place.

***

Amy exhales, knocks firmly on his door, and starts to wonder how - of all the places she could and should be on a Thursday night after a long shift - she ended up here.

It just sort of happens – the day slowly passes without any real incident, except the funky smells that permeate the bullpen after Charles’s failed attempts at a normal human lunch. She gets nowhere looking at old bank statements and scanning CCTV footage trying to track down this perp, and continues to glance at his empty seat every once in a while, wondering what kind of joke he’d crack.

It’s weird to think that last year he spent six months not sitting in that seat and now one day of absence feels almost as jarring. Apparently, it’s so jarring that it’s enough for her to make an unannounced house call, because she’s still worried about him and she still misses him and, if nothing else, he at least deserves a better quality blanket than that grey thin rag, for god’s sake. He deserves to be taken care of.

Of course, she’d spent twenty minutes at home trying to talk herself out of it whilst simultaneously raiding her cupboards for the thickest blanket she owns and putting her stovetop kettle on to boil. She’d spent the whole time driving to his apartment sternly muttering to herself that this was a bad idea - and now she’d spent a good five minutes just standing outside his door before knocking, trying to think of what to say.

She’d like the record to show that when it comes to Jake Peralta, she can average a total of about thirty-five minutes of self-restraint. Maybe it’s a good thing that she hasn’t seen him in a while.

She doesn’t have much time to dwell on that thought, however, as a clearly sleep deprived Jake opens the door and stares at her like he’s not convinced she’s actually real. It’s kind of adorable.

He’s a few shades paler that usual, his hair is a gloriously disastrous mess, and his grey t-shirt and sweatpants are a museum of stains of all different shapes and sizes - but he’s alive, and healthy enough, and visual conformation of those two facts takes a world of weight off her shoulders. He’s also genuinely surprised to see her judging from that cute dopey expression on his face.

The logical part of her instantly switches off like she’s blown her rational fuse. She also, somehow, seems to forget how to talk.

“…Ames? What are you-“

“I, um, brought tea. And an actual blanket. I thought…you might be cold.” She interrupts, hyperaware of the heat creeping up her body, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. Amy feels a sudden overwhelming urge to just throw the teapot she’s been cradling down at his feet and run for it, but she holds her ground.

“You…you brought tea?”

“It’s my abeula’s recipe – it’s really calming. I thought it might help.” There’s a pause, agonisingly long enough to make her certain that this was a mistake. “I can, um, go if you don’t-“

“No! No. It’s okay, come in.” Jake finally smiles, and she relaxes, stepping in to his apartment. It’s messier than usual, plaid scattered everywhere, various bowls and plates and cups in places where bowls and plates and cups shouldn’t be – but she lets it go, for now.

He stands a little awkwardly, a little self-consciously, as if he’s waiting for her to judge him on how he or his apartment looks - but she just smiles, diligently busying herself with making space to set the teapot down carefully on his coffee table. He’s uncharacteristically quiet until she looks up at him and clocks the way his hands seem to practically shake with nervous energy.

“Did you come here just to…take care of me?” He says it with this cute kind of half disbelief, half amusement, and she almost blushes. It’s the hesitation that gets her, the way he can’t quite believe it that moves to unearth her from the solid platonic ground she’s firmly rooted herself in.

This was definitely a mistake.

“Maybe.” Amy says, trying not to sound as self-conscious and/or as ridiculously obviously obsessed with him as she feels. “Do you want the blanket or not?”

There’s a beat of uncertainty before he nods - she takes her neatly folded blanket out of her bag and throws it at him.

“It’s my warmest one. If you spill anything on it, I will murder you.” Jake stares at the blanket, sniffs slightly, and stares back at her again before breaking out into a real, proper actual genuine smile that may as well set her on fire.

“Am I hallucinating you?” His voice is groggy, a little deeper than usual, she’s noticed. It makes her laugh.

“Nope. Lucky for you. Do you have mugs?” He gestures to the kitchen and she nods, weaving between his massage chairs, using all her willpower not to look back over her shoulder to see if he’s still watching her.

Jake’s kitchen is just about as chaotic as the rest of his day to day life seems to be – she throws open almost every cupboard she can find looking for what she needs. When that fails, she instinctively starts tidying things away, putting plates where she thinks his plates should go and putting his ridiculously large collection of empty orange soda cans in a separate bag for recycling. It’s a nice challenge, and she gets so into it that she barely notices him come in.

“I came to see what was taking so long - did you tidy up in here?” He’s wearing her blanket like a superhero cape and he’s got that stupid little smirk on his face and strictly platonic thoughts are few and far between.

“I’m doing you a favour.” She says, defensive; he just shrugs, opening a cupboard Amy didn’t even know existed and grabbing two mugs – one with a very large print of Charles’s beaming face that she recognises as an old Secret Santa gift, and a handmade one that looks like his mom’s ceramic work.

She takes them gladly, walking back to the coffee table while he follows her, clearly curious in a way that she loves. Amy pulls the tea cozy off and pours the tea out, softly exhaling, highly conscious of the quiet intense look he’s giving her that she can’t quite read.

There’s still this underlying awkwardness that undercuts everything she does, like they’re both not really sure why she’s doing it. It’s a familiar awkwardness – it’s been fizzling, on and off, between them since the Maple Inn - it hangs in the air, a question unspoken and unanswered by both of them. 

Neither dare acknowledge the tension, the infinite potential of more that so often permeates their interactions, made worse by shameless flirting and the ease in which they work together – and they do, work so well together, and that’s what makes it so hard to not at least give it a shot.

But they won’t, or at least Amy won’t. Because now would probably be the least romantic time for a first kiss possible, and because if it didn’t work, the loss of what they already have might just split her heart in two.

So she doesn’t acknowledge the way he’s staring at her like he’s trying to solve her, and interprets it another way. Any other way is something she’s woefully unprepared to talk about.

“If you say anything mean about my tea cozy you’re not getting any tea.” Amy glares at him pointedly and he holds up his hands in mock surrender. It’s normal and easy and familiar and she can breathe again as some of the tension dissipates.

“I don’t even know what a tea cozy is. Did you handknit that?”

“Maybe. Yes - I like knitting. I have actual interests outside of work.”

“Hey, I have cool other interests!”

“Die Hard doesn’t count.” She shakes her head – he’s about to challenge her but he’s interrupted by a abrupt coughing fit that goes on for slightly too long. She feels her own chest constrict with anxiety as he winces.

“Are you really dying?” She says, careful to be softer than she’s been since she got here - It’s hard not to be defensive when she feels like she’s defending her entire heart from just beating out of her chest. He sits down on the couch and smiles, if a little weakly.

“Nah. It’s just flu, but my ribs are still sore from my epic incredible car chase, so, y’know. I’m in agonising pain every time I breathe, I’m a martyr, it’s no biggie.” She rolls her eyes but her concern still aches in the pit of her stomach, and she thinks he can tell.

He gestures for her to hand him a mug and they take one in unison. Jake raises his like he’s proposing a toast.

“To health or whatever, and to Amy’s old lady tea.”

They clink the mugs together and both take a sip – it’s warm, comfortingly so, and does wonders to calm nerves that she’s not even sure why she has in the first place. She cautiously glances at him for approval and the small content smile on his face is more than enough. Amy wants to do everything she can to earn that smile forever.

The two of them exchange quiet small talk in-between sips, like the few updates she has on the arson case in his absence and how bored he’s been holed up in his apartment for the past two days like he’s carrying some kind of zombie plague, like what’s happening on that crime drama Amy got him into and how they think Holt & Wuntch’s rivalry might escalate.

It’s so wonderfully normal, after a while - Amy curled up in a motionless massage chair laughing into her tea while Jake lies underneath her blanket on his couch, recounting old crazy stories from his beat cop days amid a few minor coughing fits. They fit together – it fits, her coming around unannounced just because she missed him and she wanted to check if he was okay, like it’s a totally normally thing for a platonic co-worker to do.  

He finishes the story with a grand flourish, grinning as she laughs, his hands collapsing back down to rest on his stomach – but when there’s a lull in their conversation for the first time that night, he just looks at her. It’s warm, and a little intense but not in a way she minds, and in a way she’s half-conscious she’s probably returning. It’s almost happy and sad at the same time, if that’s even a thing, and it takes all the willpower she has not to just completely and utterly melt.

“You’re staring again.” She says, never breaking eye contact for a second. He shrugs.

“So are you.”

It’s almost enough to undo her completely. Almost.

“I should, um, go. You need to get some rest.” She says, biting her lip, eyes quickly darting down to her feet so she doesn’t have to see how his face falls. They stand in tandem, Amy quickly gathering her things.

“Right. Yeah. Can I…”

“You can keep the blanket.” Amy smiles, waves a hand when he tries to protest – “Jake, I’ve got loads, it’s fine. You need it more than I do.” And, just like that, just for the sweet way he looks at her, it’s worth it. Tension and awkwardness, mistake or not - it’s all worth it.

“Thanks, Ames. For everything – for the miracle old lady tea, and the blanket, and just…being you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The ache is only intensified when the door closes and she feels like sliding on to the ground and never moving again. But it dulls by the elevator - and, by the time she gets home, it’s only relief that lingers as she puts her teapot in the correct place in her perfectly neat and organised kitchen, a small smile never leaving her face. It definitely wasn’t a mistake.

Amy doesn’t know what’s in their future. She doesn’t know whether the tension between them will eventually fizzle completely or keep mounting and mounting up until it’s a unbearable weight that makes the air so thick they’ll both choke. Maybe she’ll continue to affirm that it’s just not worth the risk, and maybe, just maybe, some chain of events she has no control over will lead to them giving it a try, if there’s anything to try at all.

The thought of having no control over their future is almost enough to give her an aneurysm – but, behind all the anxiety, behind all the uncertainty and the awkwardness and the bad ideas, there’s a tiny, shining, glimmer of hope.

Whatever ends up happening between them – Amy’s not so worried anymore.

[calleo-bricriu]

I’m still on a break from that awful fiction book. Nearly done with it but still annoyed with it for being so terrible.

Instead, here’s the next chapter of “Facts for he Married”.

As an aside, you cannot read this man’s medical books without basically reading them as that insufferable Leigh character from his fiction book because Leigh is him with a different name.

Anyway.

I got through a good few paragraphs of the third "case study" in Facts for the Married before realising that interruption wasn't talking about in conversation.

Apparently, the third anecdote here is about a couple who is just bad at sex.

Which, of course, is entirely the wife's fault, according to the author because how could a man be wrong or not good at such a thing?

It goes a little off the rails pretty quickly with, "No nation can last whose social life is one of sensuality and sex perversion. History has shown this fact. But, however much we may look back upon the times of Nero or Caligula or try to imagine the Eleusinian orgies, we should try to remember that such things as were done and said were at least open and public matters and as such could have been regulated, had a high moral standard been in existence." He’s just saying shit like this to the two people in his office for their appointment unprompted.

I guess regulated public orgies would be moral though. I’m not sure--how--but there we go.

"And what is a prettier sight in the world than a plump mother with a plumper baby?" A lot of things, if I'm being honest. He's talking like he's trying to sell them off to a butcher.

He's finally moved on to the totally real and not something he just made up couple and we've got a pale, thin husband and an irritable, twitchy wife. She’s described in the sort of way where you just know the author wants to call her bitchy or worse but Swears Are Not Allowed, so she’s just “irritable and nervous” and occasionally ‘shrew like”.

The totally real husband starts trying to explain the relationship issues with his wife, like a normal person might, and the doctor cuts him off about five words in and essentially tells him to shut up with his complaining then tells him he needs to start living according to the laws of nature and, at 39, there's no excuse for him to have--loss of stamina, as well as the "fact" that all the drugs in the world won't fix his wife being a frigid, nervous bitch.

Little harsh.

"You fear impotence, and your fear is justified," is probably not a statement that is helpful here, especially since the guy just explained that that’s literally one of his problems. For some reason, I got the image of this doctor sort of looking down his nose in an inappropriately appraising way at the guy when he said that.

He goes on and tells this poor guy that he's also got a shite memory, doesn't know how to sleep correctly, has headaches, has no idea what he's doing or talking about because the guy never mentioned any of this, and at one point the guy tries to agree with him then explain more.

"Sometimes, I feel--"

"Yes, no need to waste your energy in telling me," and he goes off describing more 'problems' this guy has because he's good enough to read minds I guess. This man is a terrible doctor both for his wildly inaccurate advice and for the fact that he doesn’t listen to his patients.

At this point, we find out the absolutely real wife is sitting RIGHT THERE (she had only been mentioned as having existed previously and the writing was such that it read like just the Doctor and the poor guy trying to explain his problems) and interrupts (the conversational type this time) the doctor that another doctor told them that her husband had spinal issues, and THIS doctor just sort of went with, "Whatever, he was a quack. I'm a real doctor."

"But did you tell him and the others you have been to that you lived unnaturally?"

Okay first of all, what?

Second, she tells him no and gets berated for not knowing she was "living wrongly" and I assume sarcastically asks if her husband even objected to her trying to tell other doctors they were normal people.

He tries to answer, gets interrupted by the doctor again who somehow knows that, before this couple got married, she told him she didn't want kids and he was cool with it.

...and that's why they're bad at sex, because they don’t want children. That's the long conclusion. I have to admit, I’ve never wanted children and I don’t think I’m necessarily bad at the sex thing. Then again, I haven’t tried to drag up the ghost of Dr. Howard to ask his opinion and I kind of want to because I’m definitely the sort of unnartually wrong living sort that would probably kill him a second time just by being in the same room with me.

The doctor sits there for seven pages berating her for not wanting to have kids, that her husband needs to start demanding babies be made and if she refuses and cuts him off it's entirely her fault if he cheats on her.

Since the husband appears to be a reasonable person, despite the author's attempts to write him as completely useless, he tries to explain that he doesn't really want to do that, that it's beyond inappropriate to demand his wife have children if she doesn't want them, he was perfectly okay with this while they were dating and when they got married and that it’s her choice (you know, a reasonable, normal response--just not for 19--when the hell was this one published? 1912.) and, of course, gets cut off by the doctor again so he can berate him for being useless and spineless in one breath and stopping just short of calling his wife a frigid bitch for refusing to get pregnant.

We're introduced to a third sex: Neutered. While I know that sounds amusing, all it means is that you’re not conforming to prevailing gender role expectations of the time so you’re no longer a man or a woman you’re a ‘neuter’. He also briefly mentioned it applies if some sort of surgery is required that leaves one sterile or if they end up with a disease that makes them sterile.

I don't--think that's how it works but, okay, sure, why not?

So, they both stop trying to explain to the doctor that he's being an idiot (which he is) and he orders them to go home and start being less terrible at sex--no advice as to how, it was pretty much just, “Go home and have, like, at LEAST two kids then you’ll be fine,” at which point he'll stop being--how was the husband described? Pale and thin; he'll stop being pale and thin and presumably also stop being a spineless wreck and she'll be much less of a frigid bitch once she has babies plural.

I'm a bit concerned at this point he's going to make good on the threat of giving "explicit advice and instructions" but will also be kind of disappointed if he doesn’t.

Wife is used as a verb a few times, in reference to older men ditching their first wives and grabbing a "young girl" as a new one and THOSE men deserve "nothing but contempt from their young wives". Don’t use wife as a verb, though, unless you’d like whichever person you do that to to give you a well deserved punch in the teeth for it.

The reason for that is--that hypothetical older guy she’ll jump to once she gets tired of Mr. Spineless here, will either make her a nervous wreck by being even more terrible at sex (because if he were any good at it he could have kept his first wife and she wouldn’t have walked the second the kids were grown, of course) and it's his fault because he's repeatedly insulted her and "starved her to desperation" by being terrible at sex. I don’t know why he’s talking about this, at no point did this couple express the desire to get divorced or get a sugar daddy involved.

I'm not sure how this is applicable to the 100% real couple in the room with this doctor.

He finally starts rambling on about old men and young women and tells him to not jump back into it because he can't risk any strain on his vitality, "what little you have left" (quit murdering the guy, Doctor, damn...), and needs to take a 3-6 month holiday by himself so he can get his life back together. If his job gives him hell about wanting to take SIX MONTHS off, he's supposed to tell them that they don't have that option and fuck off on holiday anyway.

I don't think reality works like that. I have a hell of a lot of accrued time off and I'm still pretty sure if I told @directoryandle that I was going to fuck off on a six month holiday I'd be sacked (unless I could make a convincing case for it being a working holiday).

So, husband has to take a 3-6 month holiday by himself, now it's the wife's turn for getting advice. These people don’t have names, as an aside, because it’s “real case studies” so he’ll sometimes go with “Mr. S----” or “Mrs. S----” but that’s it. Usually he just calls them “the husband” and “the wife”.

Her orders are to let her husband take that 3-6 month holiday without her and told what amounts to, "At least you're not a murderer, so there's that," and reminded to (once he's back from his holiday, of course) get to work on that having multiple children thing. Presumably a woman who doesn’t want kids is only one run up from an actual murderer.

They’re both somehow pleased with this awful advice and then we get to the “Fourth Case Study”.

The couple in the fourth absolutely real case is the opposite, they're too good at the sex thing and she's noticed he's losing weight and energy and the husband is just, "I don't see the problem here, I’m fine."

SHE tells the doctor she'll cut her husband off if it'll fix his health because she’s concerned that he “wants to love her too much”--like, honey, you can just tell him no, you don’t have to say yes to his 30th request for the day or however excessive this is, he’s got working hands and is a grown adult let him deal with it himself now and again--which doesn't seem to be terrible in any regard, and gets praised for that while he gets sarcastically lectured for the rest of the chapter about how he's being excessive and needs to calm down.

And how often is this happening that the husband is actively losing weight? I mean, you could just try feeding him more to make up for the calorie deficit I guess.

Honestly, despite how much like the Perfect Wife he was trying to portray her it really did come off as he subtly asking him to tell her husband to fucking cool it because they already have five kids and she hardly has any time to get anything done without him pestering her about it 4+ times per day--but it can’t be phrased that way or then he’d have two write about how she’s a terrible person who doesn’t appreciate the good things her husband has given her.

There's just no winning with Dr. Howard.

[inke-ri]

So I actually liked vld season 7

Some of it anyway. I still have some beef with it. Normally I don’t really post my thoughts but I wanna get it out of my chest c: gonna stick just to the Good Things on this post since it got out of hand!

Warning: LONG POST and since I’m on mobile idk how to put it under a read more!

*** [Good Things]

So many good things honestly.

• FIRST OF ALL: THE MUSIC! THE ANIMATION! THE BACKGROUNDS! THE CHOREOGRAPHY!! More than any plot these workers deserve so much credit <333

• Everything about episode 1. From learning of the beginning of Keith’s and Shiro’s friendship to the shenanigans with the yelmore. As a med student though, I wish they would explain a bit more about this mysterious disease he had and why is it apparently “gone” now.

• Cosmo. Everything about this space pupper. I love that he’s being included far more than the other pets because it was always pretty clear to me he’s very protective of keith and doesn’t appear to like leaving his owner’s side. ALSO I LOVE HOW BIG HE IS. HE’S BIGGER THAN PIDGE IN SOME SHOTS.

• I’m digging the Generals’ new outfits. Noice.

• LANCE DEFENDING PIDGE. Yes yes yes. I love how much he cares for her. I really wish she had become his love interest instead of Allura. Still! They had quite a few sweet moments c:

• Space mice are back to helping the team too heck yes

• “The Feud” is both kinda endearing but also my least favorite episode of the series. Since this part is about the good things: Everything about Lotor. Zarkon calling Lotor names. It was so DOTU I loved it so much

• THE DRUID IS BACK!! I loved that the druid was back. I really really wish they had expanded on WHY the druids are like that and HOW do they get their powers. They appear Galra. Are they a breed Haggar experimented on? They seem to almost idolize her. Gimme more info on the quiznaking Druids season 8 plEASE

• KEITHS WEIRD QUINTESSENCE POWERS VOLTRON PLEASE -PLEASE- EXPLAIN - as a side note I 110% believe the purple quintessence coming from Keith’s hands in when he unlocks Black’s wings in season 6 is that very power of his, not Shiro’s spirit or whatever

• Keith’s and Krolia’s goodbye. It was so emotional. I love that Keith has the maturity to understand that she has to leave- not because of a “mission” but because so many Blades she was shown to CARE FOR were gone. For all the “greater good” the Blades were about, they did seem to care. I love how gentle Krolia was with Kolivan too. I wonder if Kolivan is the Shiro to Krolia’s Keith.

• I originally had mixed feelings about the Floating In Space episode because both Keith and Allura felt OOC at first. But y'know what? I’ve come to like it. Keith had been acting like the Perfect Leader™ since he came back, as if his issues had all faded away when he and Black really became a team. But truth is, they weren’t. Keith was responsible for his team now, and they were floating in space, nearly dying, and the paladins were talking about QUITTING. Keith didn’t do his job well enough. Keith failed, failed them and FAILED as a leader, or so he felt: he let them down JUST LIKE IN SEASON 4 and now they’d all die. He was tired and not thinking properly so OF COURSE his basic instinct flared up: “leave them so they wont kick me out first”. As someone who likes the idea of keith and allura together, I really didn’t get Keith’s sudden outburst against Alfor, but… He might have done it to push Allura’s buttons. He KNOWS her, he KNOWS she’s the one who would argue the most (like in s4), so he instinctively tries to get her off him already- and because he knows her so well he goes for something that he knows is a low blow. Thing is, that made Allura’s own hurt feelings flare up (and the rest of the team’s). Allura might have understood where he was coming from in s4, but she was clearly sad that he still chose the Marmora over them. Even if she GETS it, it still HURTS. The whole team HURT. And now Keith was trying to push them away AGAIN. They were PISSED. They had trusted him 100% even though he abandoned them and now he was leaving again?!

BUT THEN!! DEVELOPMENT!! This time team Voltron WILL NOT let Keith go. Will NOT kick him out no matter how hard Keith tries to make them do it (thanks Hunk!!). And that helps Keith to FINALLY admit how much he cares and allows him to put them right up there with Shiro and Krolia when it comes to people HE wont give up on, people he now KNOWS wont give up on him. He may have called them “friends” but.. Keith isn’t that good with expressing how much he cares. He’s always a little hesitant when it comes to sharing his feelings (you’re LIKE a brother to me vs you’re MY BROTHER). He does mean family. He’s just being Keith :)

• I actually genuinely liked the Earth two-parter. I never thought Sam could carry an episode like that but damn. U go babe. I loved Colleen too. AND VERONICA YEA GIRL

• Kincaid and Griffin OWN MY HEART I SWEAR-

• Bless non-evil-Galra-Prince AJ LoCascio. Even though I got whiplash in some scenes like “wait he sounds like Lotor wtq” most of the times I didn’t even notice. So glad they decided to keep him around! He has a superb voice.

• Katie reuniting with her family!! LANCE reuniting with his family!! “uncle lance” yes pls ;w;

• Hunk’s flashbacks ;-; I feel so bad for the baby I’m so glad his family is safe now. I loved seeing how cooking isn’t really just for food when it comes to Hunk, I love that his mom and aunt (i’m assuming??) actually let us viewers understand that every time hunk cooks he’s more interested in sharing company and spending time together. Just. Yes <3

• Iverson apologizing to Keith + petting Cosmo heck yea. Griffin and Keith ignoring their differences, nice.

• KEITH COMFORTING HUNK. He might not be as comfortable saying emotional words like “love” or “family” to the team as he is around Shiro and Krolia (understandably), but you can see he cares just as much. Also YES let him be hugged more. He clearly loves it.

• All those conformations of paladins!! Keith/Pidge/Allura -> Pidge and Keith. Yes!! Keith and Hunk! Lance and Hunk!! A+ hell yea

• All the shoutouts to previous seasons!! The reflective shields from S6ep1. Keith understanding sign language this time!! Pidge distracting the guards by being silly (but in a very Pidge way) while Keith goes around like in season 1!!!

• Really nice touch of having Allura give up the crystal in her tiara to save Shiro. Their friendship is so precious <3 Also bonus points since this was likely what allowed Shiro to sense Atlas’ quintessence- the new arm still DOES have a connection to his brain so, like, so does the crystal :’D

• Speaking of Atlas, I’m neutral on it? So long as it doesn’t keep showing up as a robot I’m good. I just don’t get why it gets defense upgrade when it turns into a robot? Regardless though, it seems wayyy too big and clumsy. So hopefully it’ll remain just a ship in most eps.

• I did love the smaller earth fighters tho! Blonde + Freckles Whose Name I Can’t Spell Sorry grew on me. Also, ships’ designs are awesome. Honestly so long as Earth Team doesn’t end up in the LIONS I’d be happy. I feel like they might though. Oh well.

• LANCE. JUST HOW MUCH LANCE MATURED. THIS WAS ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS ABOUT THIS SEASON. He barely joked around this time!! He really showed how he supports the team. I LOVE to see Keith depending on and trusting Lance to be his second in command. THAT’S what I always wanted for the two of them. - Bonus: I loved how Keith fell back for a second on his old habits by going all “don’t miss the shot” or whatever cause really that’s exactly what their rivalry was about. Early Series Lance would get back at him without batting an eye. But he remained focused and alert! Lance’s development is more subtle but this is EXACTLY the same point Keith was when Kuron started calling him worthless. Keith had GROWN, and those things didn’t bother him anymore. Likewise, Lance has GROWN. He’s an adult who takes things seriously now and doesn’t waste time with silly bickering. Just. Yes. While lowkey, this is just as satisfying to me because unlike Keith we actually SAW all the stages of Lance’s growth. (We didn’t see all the conversations Keith and Krolia had on the space whale). Just. Lance. Bless him.

• I still prefer Sendak’s season 1 design. That said, he was a marvelous villain- more than any other he really represented all that was evil in the Galra Empire so I enjoyed him. Zarkon was into the lions for personal reasons, Haggar is more about the Altean thing, Lotor didn’t really care for Voltron since he built Sincline. So yea. I didn’t expect him to be the main villain but I don’t mind.

• Speaking of which, loved the Sendak/Shiro fight! It really felt like all that encompassed the Paladins vs all that encompassed the Galra. And even though I actually didn’t like that Keith was the one to deal the final blow, Keith IS a mix of Galra/Paladin who has good intentions. So… like Lance said early in the season. He’s the future.

• not so sure what to think of the final EP and that weird robot but eh. Assuming it’s from Honerva, I DID like how it showed that Honerva IS different than Haggar… And more dangerous. This was literally a Haggar Robeast but upgraded, because YEA Honerva is much better than her quintessence-cursed counterpart.

• THE FAMILIES!! Shay!! Y'know I’m not usually a multishipper - actually I’ve never done it before - but I love both hunay and hunelle. I’m totally ok with hunelle in an AU and hunay in voltron canon (Hunk clearly cares for her so much that even though I prefer Romelle I can’t go against that precious bean teary smile when Shay showed up.). Besides!! Platonic hunelle is really precious too. ALSO ALSO KOLIVAN AND KROLIA and Krolia is wearing a Leader's version of the BoM suit?? NICE

• Matt is back and looks more handsome than ever! I love the ponytail. I love his design. And his colors. And his new girlfriend?? If I remember correctly from the Naxzela episode the helmeted alien sounded like a girl. ALSO ARE THOSE PUPS BESIDES OLIA HER KIDS?? PRECIOUS PUPPERS

• ROMELLE. we need more of her gdi-

• IS THE ALTEAN MERLA OH GOD LET IT BE MERLA I’M BEGGING YOU-

• Lastly, another of my favorite bits: Piloting the Lions through their bond. It just goes so well with my headcanon that the quintessence of the pilot actually MERGES with the quintessence of the pilot, so much that when they’re connected like that even if the body dies the mind still goes on. The difference for me between this season and what Shiro went through is that the paladins still have their bodies to ground them and help them keep control, while Shiro was just… Lost in the astral plane, barely able to separate his consciousness from the Lion’s (so much that this only happened twice when the paladins were purposely trying to connect with his quintessence/spirit in the astral plane). It’s not as “romantic” as the whole ‘black SAVED SHIRO’ but I really think his time in the Black Lion was really unsettling: not being Shiro and not being Black, but some weird mix of the two (his sarcastic confusion towards lance early in the season also supports this: he wasn’t HIMSELF anymore. Thinking like a normal person and not like a robot is WEIRD for him). It’s a headcanon though but it’s mine and I will fight you on this (actually no pls don’t fight me).

*** Overall!! While not my favorite season (that’s 2 and 6), season 7 wasn’t BAD. Maybe I just had lower expectations since I spoiled myself out of anxiety. It wont be like s2 and s6 where I’ll binge watch the eps over and over again, but it’s pretty comfortable with s1 and s3 in “eh it was fine, ok, I like it”.

[That said, there WERE quite a few things that pissed me off about this season, but everyone is so negative rn and quite a few people already covered part of those reasons, so I wanted to post about good things!! I’ll probably do another post on the Bad Things of this season.]

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: 5 PILLARS OF ISLAM: ALMS AND CHARITY: VIRTUES OF ZAKAT:

ZAKAT LIBERATES FROM MATERIAL SLAVERY

Zakat unfetters from the shackles of excessive love for material things. Islam, in fact, insists that a person be free from all sinister fetters and turn his heart purely in the direction of God, so to speak.

For man, becoming a slave for something that he is the master of is an awful digression from the purpose of his creation. Everything has been created for mankind, who should make use of this privilege in utilizing it in the way outlined by Islam, in natural conformity with the divine will. Otherwise, this could well end in the material universe being unduly elevated to a virtual object o f worship, causing a detrimental sway in feelings, thoughts and actions. The Noble Prophet (upon whom be peace) has emphasized this most unfortunate digression: “Woe to the slaves of gold, silver, linen and silk! If they are granted these, they celebrate, but they cannot digest when deprived of them.”34

The most effective cure for this disease is, again, zakat, an eternal investment that is an excellent means of orienting the heart of the benefactor towards the Hereafter.

ZAKAT IS SECURITY

Having expressed excruciating anxiety soon after the First Revelation, the nervousness of the Noble Prophet (upon whom be peace) was appeased by the soothing words of his wife, Khadija: “No, no…I swear, God will never forsake you; for you always visit your relatives, speak the truth, help others (physically and financially), treat your guests well and be of assistance in everything pertaining to the Truth.”32

Abu Bakr had come across ibn Daginna, on his attempted migration to Abyssinia, who asked, “Where are you going?” Abu Bakr replied, “My tribe has tormented me, making life hell and has finally driven me out.” Ibn Daginnah, a socially influential man, retorted “No way! Return, for you are a man who does righteous deeds and lends physical and financial help to others. From now on, you are under my protection.”33 All this alludes to how acts likezakat, sadaqa and giving general assistance provide the security and protection of God, as well as gaining the trust of the public

[eccacia]

wonderful you came by [part 15]

Summary: Caitlin’s a no-nonsense science major. Barry’s the quintessential charming star athlete. When they’re paired off and forced to interact in class, Caitlin’s determined to resist his charms, but Barry’s also pretty determined to get under her skin… It all boils down to a battle between head and heart, and Caitlin’s not one to give in to her heart so easily. [College AU]

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, or read on ff.net

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Flash. The article that Barry cites here is called “What Is Nothing?” by Fraser Cain from phys.org.

One of the most important things that Caitlin’s father had taught her was the discipline of getting rid of a bad habit. He’d taught her that it wasn’t enough to drop the habit cold turkey: if change was to be sustainable and permanent, the old habit had to be dropped and be immediately replaced by a better habit. For instance, if she wanted to stop watching TV, she couldn’t just spend the rest of the hour avoiding the TV—she had to do something else, like read the encyclopedia.

It was with this logic that Caitlin resolved to excise Barry Allen from her mental life. It did not do to merely stop thinking about him, because it was impossible to stop thinking about him by sheer willpower; so instead, she filled her day with work—with outlining and practicing for the orals, with summarizing journal articles for her thesis, with drafting the next post-lab report—which successfully crowded her mind, so that there was no room for Barry Allen at all.

She had come to this course of action the next morning, after a good night’s rest and after the alcohol had been flushed out of her system. She hadn’t been in a state of mind to think things through the night before—she was too confused and distraught, and her mind was muddled with emotion—but in the light of day, with some distance from Barry, she was finally able to evaluate the recent events with startling clarity.

It seemed that her null hypothesis regarding Barry Allen—that he did not harbor romantic feelings for her—was disproven by that kiss, as a kiss was the pinnacle of romantic feeling. But upon reevaluation of her hypothesis, she realized that a fatal error had occurred in her reasoning. She realized that it didn’t matter if her hypothesis was proven or disproven, because the underlying rationale of her investigation was faulty. It was similar to testing a hypothesis like “There is a significant positive relationship between the width of one’s hand span and the age of one’s maternal grandmother.” The numbers could indeed show that those with wider hand spans also had older maternal grandmothers, but the study itself was irrelevant. Similarly, her hypothesis assumed that it was important to be considered Barry Allen’s object of affection, which implied that romance was a worthwhile endeavor, when, in fact, it was not.

And the reason why it wasn’t worthwhile was simple: Love was temporary insanity. That was by far the most logical explanation for why she—she who was logical, clear-headed, intolerant of frivolity, unseduced by narratives of romantic love—had suddenly fallen for Barry in a span of two weeks, and why she’d found herself doing things that she would never have done, such as spending three hours on the phone, or singing onstage, or dancing with abandon in the midst of a sweaty throng, or leaning in to kiss someone that she barely knew.

In line with that, she realized that Saturday night contained all the necessary conditions to short-circuit reasoning. The context of a party simultaneously created an atmosphere of wild abandon and disabled the tools for rational thought: one is unable to see clearly when one’s vision is assaulted by the bright, blinking lights; one can hardly hear oneself think above the aggressive beat of the music; and, once inebriated, one is unable to wield logic at all.

And, during the party, when Barry had called her onstage to sing with him, she was placed in a context in which it was impossible for her to say no without dire social consequences—rather than to step off the stage, be booed by the crowd, and be labelled a killjoy, she was inclined to take the path of least resistance, which was to simply join him. Their dancing together had also been a function of context: after the sing-off, people were pulling friends and significant others onto the dance floor, and they, conforming to the crowd, had also moved to the dance floor. It was part of the script of a party to dance; it was not part of the script of a party to have a clear-headed discussion on the implications of him naming her as his partner for the sing-off.

That kiss was similarly manufactured by the demands of context. The open balcony under the starry night sky was a favorite setting of the romantic imagination, and with good reason: she suspected that standing under the vast night sky made people feel small and insignificant, and, faced with the overwhelming threat of their insignificance, they naturally gravitated to others, fiercely wanting the other to affirm their significance, wanting to be loved and known in order to save themselves from the reality that they were adrift and alone, a speck of dust on a piece of rock suspended in empty space. In fact, two of her most ill-informed decisions—deciding that she liked Barry, and leaning in to kiss him—were made under the night sky. Had they been around people in the light of day, in a sober setting like the library, such things would never have happened.

In any case, she would allow no more of this nonsense in her life. It was absurd to believe that this new self, this Caitlin-with-Barry self that had been forged in a mere two weeks, could overshadow the self she’d been for over twenty years; it then followed that the new self was a falsehood that had to be discarded, and the self she’d always been—the logical, clear-headed, impervious-to-romance self—was her true self, the self she had to maintain and protect. And, in order to do that, she had to cut Barry Allen off. It was regrettable, but it was necessary. Sometimes, to halt the progress of a disease, it wasn’t enough to scrape away the infected flesh; sometimes, it was necessary to amputate the entire limb.

She resolved to stand by her decision until his persistence waned and until he realized, as she had, that his energies were better directed elsewhere. She, for one, could focus on her career, as she had always intended, and he could focus on his transition into Forensic Science.

It was the most logical decision, and one that would benefit them both. It was, she truly believed, for the best.

Monday, 7:07 PM

Hi Caitlin, it’s me again. I don’t want to sound like a stalker or anything by spamming you with voicemail, so… just tell me to stop if you really want me to stop, okay? I swear I will. But if you won’t say anything, I’m just going to assume that your silence means, Yes, Barry, you can be as annoying as you possibly can. —Why, Caitlin, it’s my pleasure to serve up my specialty. In fact, this is your first daily dose of annoyingness, served fresh from the kissable mouth of CCU Cutie Barry Allen—ah, crap, Wally just heard me saying that. Crap. Now he’s laughing his butt off. Can you hear him? Here, I’ll move closer. He laughs like a hyena. It’s hideous. I don’t think you’ve ever met him, but I hope you will sometime… Anywaaay, uh, I called to let you know that I’m sorry, and I’m not giving up. That’s all for now. I’m going to dig myself a hole if I keep going while Wally’s listening, so call me if you want to talk, I guess. Bye.

Swipe. Delete.

. . .

Tuesday, 10:51 AM

Hi Caitlin. So, uh, welcome to day two of being annoyed by your local cutie. Heh, I can already imagine you wrinkling your brow and trying not to smile but failing not to smile, so you end up biting your lip instead, and you’d say, “Who’re the idiots that put you on the CCU Cutie list”—I’m number eight out of fifty, in case you’re wondering, not to toot my own horn—okay, fine, totally tooting it—“and don’t those idiots know that they’re just ratcheting up your insufferability index?!” Do you remember saying that, insufferability index? I know I should be insulted, but I usually end up flattered instead, knowing that you tailor your insults to me. I like to think of it as you showing your love. Although I’d still prefer compliments... ahem, ahem. Anyway, um… wow, I’ve spent half of this voicemail talking about what you might say. It’s… not as fun talking to imaginary Caitlin than it is talking to real Caitlin. So… give me a call? Or leave a message. Whenever you’re ready. Bye.

Swipe. Delete.

Tuesday, 8:23 PM

Hey, so I just got your e-mail. I’m… kind of bummed that you wanna study separately for the orals, but… if that’s what you want, I guess. Don’t worry, I’ll do my part. It’ll be harder to study without you slave-driving me, but I won’t let you down. I can’t believe I miss you slave-driving me, heh. Anyway, um… what else… Oh yeah, I’m free next Saturday for the make-up class and the STAR Labs tour. It’s so cool that we’re having our make-up class at STAR Labs. I’m almost glad he cancelled class on Monday. Dr. Wells is the best, isn’t he? …Anyway, uh, look, I know I could’ve just e-mailed you back, but… I don’t know, e-mail’s just not our thing, you know? If that makes any sense. Yeah… that’s all for now. You know the drill. See you Thursday for the orals.

Swipe. Delete.

. . .

Wednesday, 1:34 PM

Happy third-day-sary of being annoyed by me! Er, I wasn’t sure if it’s a cause for celebration, but I guess I’m feeling pretty optimistic. I mean, at least you haven’t told me to stop talking yet, right? …Anyway, awhile ago, just for kicks, I typed “Is nothing really nothing?” in Google. Not sure if you remember, but you told me the last time we talked that whatever happened between us was nothing, and nothing is nothing so it’s smart of me to pin my hopes on it. So I thought, Is nothing really nothing? and I figured it’d be fun to ask Google. Anyway, Google has this to say about nothing: “There are physicists like Lawrence Krauss that argue the ‘universe from nothing’, really means ‘the universe from a potentiality’. Which comes down to if you add all the mass and energy in the universe, all the gravitational curvature, everything… it looks like it all sums up to zero. So it is possible that the universe really did come from nothing. And if that’s the case, then ‘nothing’ is everything we see around us, and ‘everything’ is nothing.” Neat, huh? Nothing is everything. I know you super disapprove of me typing the whole question into the search bar instead of just typing the keywords, but I swear I didn’t get it from Yahoo Answers. It’s from a site called phys.org, which sounds pretty legit to me. Anyway, see you tomorrow for orals. I studied like hell for it, and you study enough for the both of us, so we should do great. I… I’m actually looking forward to it. Not the orals, but seeing you. So… see you tomorrow. Bye.

Swipe. Delete.

“Cait? Cait.”

Caitlin startled when she felt a hand on her wrist, gently lifting it from the keyboard of her laptop. She turned to see Felicity giving her a worried look.

“You’ve been pressing the spacebar,” she said.

“Oh.” Caitlin glanced at her screen. She had begun the post-lab document at page 1. She was now on page 15, and all the pages in between were blank.

“Are you okay?” Felicity ventured. “Did something happen between you and Barry?”

“No.” She highlighted the blank pages and pressed delete.

Felicity sighed. “Cait, you haven’t been talking to us since Sunday, so something obviously happened on Saturday night. Did he hurt you? Because if he did, I swear I’ll—”

“No.” She reread the paragraph she’d written so far. “We’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Felicity pursed her lips. “Cait, please. Talk to me. You’re overworking, you haven’t been sleeping, and you have lapses like this, when you don’t even realize that you’re spacing out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Cait—”

“Felicity! God, stop!” she snapped. “I’m fine, okay? I just, I have a lot of deadlines coming up, alright?”

Felicity recoiled.

“Okay,” she said, with barely concealed hurt. “Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

She turned away and slinked back to her desk.

Caitlin concentrated on her screen, trying to ignore the pain in her chest.

The next day Caitlin woke with a start. She blinked a few times at the light streaming in through her windows, peeled away a piece of paper that had stuck to her cheek, and shot out of her chair to get ready for the orals.

Or, rather, she stumbled out of her chair, felt around for the reviewers on her desk, and shuffled around the room to gather her other things—towel, clothes, shoes, backpack—as if blind, hitting the corners of tables and countertops as she went. Despite her astounding stamina for studying, Caitlin was not immune to the effects of sleep deprivation, and after totaling only six hours of sleep for the past three days, her mind was foggy, her eyes were dry, and her stomach (also owing to an overdose of caffeine and a diet of crackers and instant noodles) roiled with acid. She felt like either wanting to vomit or wanting to die.

But she was fine. This was fine. This was familiar. At the very least, her physical unease consumed such a significant portion of her attention that she was unable to obsessively rehearse all the worst-case scenarios in her mind, as she usually did.

She took the long route to the science and engineering complex, which ensured that she would meet less people along the way, and silently recited reagent names and reaction mechanisms as she went. Benedict’s Test. Positive results: orange to brick red. Indicates the presence of sugar. Negative results: no change in color. Indicates the absence of sugar. She paused at a vendo machine for some coffee and downed it in one gulp, grimacing when it scalded her tongue. Molisch’s Test. Positive results: purple appearing at the junction of the two layers of liquids. Indicates the presence of carbohydrates. Negative results: no purple at the junction of the liquids. Indicates the absence of carbohydrates. She took the stairs to the fourth floor, and then turned to the row of rooms that professors used for consultations and oral exams. They were usually occupied towards the end of the semester, but right now there was only one occupied room with the light on and the door ajar.

Caitlin crushed her coffee cup, tossed it into a nearby trash bin, and took a deep breath. Fifteen minutes, she told herself. She only had to endure fifteen minutes of this—and of Barry Allen—and she was free. She could do this.

When she entered the room, she immediately recognized the outline of Barry’s back, seated in front of Dr. Wells’s wide wooden desk, and Dr. Wells himself sat across him with his arms folded. They seemed to be in the middle of a conversation, but when she slipped inside, Barry turned around quickly and shot her a grin.

She ignored him. She put on her deadpan mask and hoped that it wouldn’t crack.

Dr. Wells smiled at her. “Ms. Snow, nice of you to join us,” he said, as she took a seat across him and beside Barry. “Well, since you’re both here now, why don’t we start?”

“Ready when you are, Dr. Wells,” Barry said.

Caitlin merely nodded. Her anxiety was building now; her palms were beginning to sweat and her throat felt dry. She absolutely hated oral exams and anything that resembled it—presentations, panel interviews, defenses, anything at all that required her to speak, to be judged for each word she spoke, and to witness the judgment passed on her through the facial expressions (or lack thereof) of the professor or the panel even as she was still speaking. It was an absolute nightmare. The only time when she didn’t feel that way was when she was drunk—her drunk alter ego enjoyed being the center of attention, for reasons she didn’t want to contemplate—but she couldn’t very well show up drunk during an oral exam or a panel interview. Of course, she’d gotten better at hiding her fear as she went through college, but the beginning was still the worst part.

“Alright, let’s start with something easy,” Dr. Wells said. “Ms. Snow, enumerate the tests for carbohydrates and their indicators for positive results.”

This was easy. She knew this. She’d rehearsed for it just a few moments ago, and she also distinctly remembered summarizing the tests in table format for their post-laboratory report. She remembered inputting each entry and polishing the format of the table—bolding the headings, alternating the row colors, affixing the caption—and the memory remained so vivid in her mind that she could recite the answer as if she were reading directly from that table. She had this. She had this.

But when she opened her mouth to speak, no sound came. She was paralyzed. The table was still etched in her mind’s eye, but fear constricted her throat and scrambled the words she’d intended to say. Oh God, she thought, her hands fisting in the fabric of her jeans, not now not now not now—

A second passed. Then two. When three seconds crawled by, the silence became tense, and Caitlin felt all the more the crushing pressure of having to say something, if only to fill the silence; but anxiety and humiliation collapsed her airways, bound her mouth in a steel trap. She felt like she literally could not speak.

Beside her, Barry cleared his throat.

“Mind if I go first, Dr. Wells?” he said, careful not to look at her. He continued lightly, “I’d like to volunteer to answer all the easy questions before they run out.”

Dr. Wells shifted his piercing blue gaze from her to Barry, and he leaned back against his chair with a slight smile. “I can’t guarantee you any more ‘easy questions,’ Mr. Allen, but go ahead.”

Barry grinned and launched into his answer, completely at ease as he talked—so much so, in fact, that he even made a joke while he was at it. When he finished, he pretended to bow to an imaginary audience, and Dr. Wells was shaking his head in barely disguised amusement.

He paused to write something on a sheaf of stapled papers, and then looked up at Caitlin again.

“Ms. Snow?” he said expectantly. “Ready for the next question?”

Her breath caught in her throat. No, she wasn’t. She felt like fading away from the scene. It was one of her defense mechanisms—during stress, she shut down. She disengaged. She was there-not-there. Each passing second with her fear felt like a knife-tip grating down the notched bones of her spine—

She was so caught up in her internal struggle that she startled when she felt something warm cover her hand.

What the—

Her eyes flickered down, and she saw that Barry was holding her hand.

During an oral exam.

In front of Dr. Wells.

She was so livid that she couldn’t move. What was he thinking? Scratch that—was he even thinking? She was going to kill him—

But, no, wait—he wasn’t really holding her hand, per se—he was only running his fingers over her clenched fists, cautiously coaxing them to open. She hadn’t realized she’d been clenching them so tightly that the muscles were strained from the tension. When she finally unclenched them, he quickly withdrew his hand, and continued rambling to Dr. Wells—he’d been managing a conversation this whole time—as if nothing had happened.  

She blinked and took a slow, deep breath. She felt like she was coming out of her stupor, as if unclenching her fists had also uncoiled the anxiety that had gripped her body.

“Mr. Allen,” she dimly registered Dr. Wells saying, “most people answer after they’ve been asked a question, not before.”

“Just wanna show off how much I studied,” Barry said, grinning.

Dr. Wells shook his head and turned to her. “I have to apologize for pairing you off with him, Ms. Snow.”

“Hey! I resent that,” Barry protested. “I’m a pretty decent lab partner.”

“Perhaps ‘highly distractible’ is more appropriate.”

“But I can’t help it, Dr. Wells,” he said. “It’s just how I am. I get really excited about anything science.”

“Ah, Mr. Allen,” Dr. Wells said, his eyes shifting briefly to her, “I don’t think science is the only thing you get excited about.”

Oh my God, does he mean—she didn’t even want to continue that train of thought, but when she saw that Barry, for once, had been struck speechless, she supposed the implication was clear. Oh, God. This was embarrassing. Had he seen Barry reach for her hand? But it was a wide, high desk—he couldn’t have seen it—and Barry had been so discreet that she hadn’t even seen him move—

“Dr. Wells,” she blurted out, just to end the humiliation, “I believe it’s my turn…”

“So it is.” His usually stern features softened into a reassuring look. “Don’t be nervous, Ms. Snow. This isn’t so different from reciting in class or conversing with the panel in open forums.”

Caitlin swallowed and nodded.

“Ms. Snow, can you tell me why Molisch’s test for carbohydrates yields a purple color? An explanation of the reaction mechanism will do.”

She took a discreet breath. She could do this. From the corner of her eye she could see Barry glancing at her out of concern, no doubt readying another excuse to answer for her if she blanked out, and somehow the thought that he had her back quelled the anxiety rising in her throat.

“Molisch’s test determines the presence of carbohydrates by dehydrating them in the presence of sulfuric acid,” she began. She spoke with some hesitance at first, but as she continued speaking, her confidence rose, and she forgot her fear.

When she finished, there was a faint smile on Dr. Wells’s face.

“Good,” he said. “Very thoroughly explained. Now, Mr. Allen, the third question…”

While he briefly consulted his notes, Barry turned to her and smiled with a mixture of pride and relief, but she quickly turned away. She turned away because guilt had crept into the void that anxiety had carved, and this guilt—the origin of which she could not yet name—made her unable to look at him for the rest of the exam.

. . .

The rest of the orals was a breeze. Caitlin told herself that she could have gotten over her fear without Barry’s help—she’d always managed (to her own surprise) to pull through those first few minutes—but there was another part of her that said that wasn’t exactly true. When before, anxiety seized her afresh each time a new question was asked, this time, right after that first question, she felt like she’d entered a state of flow, like the question-answer sequences had already been programmed in her mind and all she had to do was to produce the answer when prompted by the question. That thoughtful gesture of his had played no small part in helping her get over her fear.

She felt, then, that the situation obliged her to thank him—if not the situation, then common courtesy, at the very least, required her to reciprocate his act of kindness with gratitude. Yet, when he’d beamed at her after they’d stepped out of the room, she’d brushed past him as if he didn’t exist; and to add insult to injury, she’d even kept her eyes trained on a spot in the distance to avoid seeing the naked hurt on his face.

Caitlin knew, objectively, that a curt “thank you” would have been no big deal in any other scenario. But this scenario was not any other scenario, and in this case a “thank you” wouldn’t be a mere expression of gratitude: a “thank you” would also be the first crack in her silence, and if she allowed that crack, she would render herself helpless against his efforts to worm his way back into her affections. A “thank you” in this case was also thus an implicit “I’m sorry for ignoring you” and “I want to talk to you again”—both of which she could not allow herself to say, because if her campaign to dissuade Barry from ever speaking to her again her was to be successful, she could allow no exceptions.

But driving him away with silence wasn’t without its consequences—she felt guilty for repaying his kindness so coldly. Normally, one could assuage one’s guilt by approaching the wronged party to make amends, but she already established that she could not approach him, so she felt doubly worse—from being unable to thank him, and from being unable to apologize to him for not thanking him.

With this guilt, too, came shame at the person she had to be in order to reject him so completely. She’d been afraid of the person she was becoming when she was with him, but now she was appalled at who she was becoming in order to drive him away. It seemed that Barry’s kindness only magnified her heartlessness; his gentle persistence, her haste in cutting him off; his unwavering thoughtfulness, her ruthless excision of him from her mental life.

She sighed. Why did he have to be so nice, anyway? She would have welcomed his anger and his resentment, because those would have made sense; but instead he was kind, and she was completely disarmed by his kindness. It was a sincere, pure-hearted kindness at that, without any undercurrent of manipulating her into guilt. But then again, that wasn’t Barry’s style, and come to think of it, she couldn’t imagine him angry and resentful… If she were to become the cause such ugly, blistering emotions in someone as good-natured as he, she was going to feel like a monster.

The least she could hope for, she thought as she settled down in her next class, was for him to give up soon. That way she didn’t have to keep hurting him—or rather, she didn’t have to keep hurting them both.

. . .

Still, that night, as she lay alone in her dark room—Felicity had been avoiding her for the past few days, and she knew she deserved it but she was yet too ashamed to apologize—she placed her phone on her pillow, beside her head. As usual, he’d left a voicemail, half an hour after the orals.

She allowed it to play.

Hey. Are you okay? I knew you told me you didn’t like orals, but I didn’t know you were that terrified of them. I hope you’re okay now. Sorry for holding your hand, I know you’re still iffy with the whole touch thing, but I didn’t know how else to comfort you. I’m really glad you got over it, though. Actually, everything turned out great in the end, don’t you think? We made quite the pair, with me slaying all the easy questions and you slaying all the hard ones, heh. Well, anyway, that’s all for now, I have to meet up with Coach. He’s been really hard on all of us lately since tomorrow’s the finals. It’ll be great if you could come watch, or even if you could drop by to say hi. I really miss you. Call me or message me or something, you know the drill. Bye.

His voice dissolved into the silence.

Caitlin swiped left, and her finger hovered above the bright red Delete button. But, right before she pressed it, the memory of his hand over hers during the orals flitted through her mind, and she shut her eyes and took a shaky breath.

She was just… so tired of this. She was so tired of resisting him, of constructing all these elaborate denials and rationalizations and justifications. She knew that there were to be absolutely no exceptions, but…

She drew her phone close.

She played the voicemail again.

Hey. Are you okay? I knew you told me you didn’t like orals, but I didn’t know you were that terrified of them. I hope you’re okay now…

He lost by 0.91 seconds.

To make up for her momentary lapse in resolve the night before, she’d adamantly avoided his meet, but she might as well have been there with the way she obsessively refreshed her Twitter feed; and, when she saw the headline “KCU’s Hunter Zolomon Bags First Place, Dethrones CCU’s Reigning Champ Barry Allen” an hour or so after the meet, she could hardly believe it.

He lost, she repeated, the thought sinking in. She could only imagine what he was feeling right now. He’d told her, during one of their phone calls, that he wanted to finish this season strong before quitting. “My heart’s not in it anymore,” he’d said, “but my ego is. Does that make sense? I mean, everyone was so proud of me when I won my first national meet. It was unbelievable. My mom and dad couldn’t stop telling their friends about it. For the first time in decades the track team finally got support from the school. Stores wanted to sponsor us. People were flocking to our meets. My teammates were so psyched, and Coach hadn’t smiled so much since his wife gave birth. It was… a pretty great feeling, I guess.” “You just like the attention,” she’d said, and he’d laughed. “Not denying that. But it’s really nice, you know, having started all that, making people proud. It makes me feel like I matter.”

But, she wondered now, if winning made him feel like he mattered, what did losing make him feel?

Disturbed by her own question, she put her phone aside and stared at the articles open on her laptop, willing her focus to return, but she couldn’t bring herself to get back to work. Guilt nagged at her conscience even more insistently now. He’d held her hand when she’d frozen up in fear during the orals, and now that he was the one who needed comfort, she was refusing to be there for him.

She knew that she couldn’t afford to make any more exceptions, but…

She dug the heels of her hand into her eyes and sighed in frustration. Sure, she could ignore a happy, cheery Barry, the Barry who sent her all those chipper voicemails, but can she really just ignore a sad, hurting Barry…?

The thought of him like that had her rising from her desk. Vaguely, she cursed herself for making that first exception last night, because now she’d set herself on the slippery slope of exception-making; but that sentiment wasn’t strong enough to stop her from heading out her door. She didn’t even think to message him to ask him where he was—it seemed her feet moved on their own accord, following the invisible trail that led to him. She knew, without knowing how she knew, where he was going to be.

. . .

She did find him there, at the Observatory.

It was sunset, like the last time they were here, and the soft light cast a warm glow on his skin. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back on his hands, silent and unmoving as a statue.

She watched him from a distance. She watched the wind tug at his hair, watched him turn his face to the dying sun and stare blankly at the smattering of stores, at the specks of people moving mutely below.

Minutes passed. Still, she remained behind a copse of trees, standing on a patch of flat ground in the midst of gnarled roots, too afraid to approach. She didn’t know what to say. She’d never been good with words, and she’d never been good at filling silences, and she didn’t know what to offer as solace. Should she begin with the bland reassurance, as most people did, that everything was going to be okay? Should she ask him how he was feeling? Should she make him laugh, offer him a hug…?

Lost as she was in her thoughts, she only dimly registered the crunch of leaves underfoot. Barry looked to his right, and, more out of instinct than curiosity, she mimicked his movement and turned to look.

At first, Caitlin couldn’t make out the person’s features, as her profile was cast against the light; but as she neared, she caught sight of a head of blond hair and a flash of straight, white teeth.

“Hey,” she said. “Thought you’d be here.”

“Patty, hey,” Barry said, and Caitlin’s world stilled.

Patty. Patty, the girl with the dimpled smile who went to all his meets, the one everyone believed he was with. How did Patty know that he’d be here? Had he brought her here, too? But how could he bring her here? Wasn’t the Observatory their place—?

Wait—why did she even think of the Observatory as theirs? In the first place, there was no ‘they’ to speak of; they weren’t even together! And wasn’t this place Barry’s safe haven? Since he was the one who’d discovered it, didn’t he have the right to share it with whomever he chose?

Caitlin took a deep breath, trying to stamp down the unfamiliar burn of jealousy in her chest.

“Can I sit here?” Patty said.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Patty folded into a sitting position, the movement supple and fluid. “So, how’re you feeling?”

The question echoed numbly in Caitlin’s mind. It was the same question she’d thought of asking him when she’d first seen the headline, the question she would have asked him had she approached him first.

“Pretty bummed, I guess,” Barry said after a lengthy pause. He exhaled. “I knew I was going to quit anyway, but I didn’t know how badly I wanted to quit a winner… Does that make sense?”

Caitlin swallowed the rising bitterness in her throat. Does that make sense—he’d always asked her that whenever he shared something serious and personal about himself, and it had always seemed an intimate phrase to Caitlin: in that question he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, to lay bare his need to be wholly understood. It had never occurred to her that he also used it while speaking to other people.

While speaking to Patty.

She felt doubly betrayed—Patty also knew about this place, and she was also privy to this more vulnerable side of him, as she was—but what, exactly, had been betrayed? Why was she the one who felt betrayed, when she’d cut him off first?

Patty nodded and touched his shoulder. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Her eyes lingered on that touch. Another small intimacy.

Her fingers curled and scraped the bark of the tree, and she had the sudden, violent urge to tear it apart—and then she caught herself in horror. What was jealousy turning her into? She did not recognize herself in these feelings, these thoughts; jealousy was making her illogical, melodramatic, and it was extremely unlike her.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down, and when she did she continued to watch them. She knew she shouldn’t be eavesdropping on this conversation—the second time it was happening, it seemed—but she found herself unable to leave. She just… had to know. She had to know what everyone else saw in them. She would leave, of course, when things became too private, and while she didn’t want to imagine how private things could get, a part of her also wanted to see whatever intimacy might unfold between them. It would hurt, of course, but at least the hurt would be allayed by the grim triumph of knowing that if he had such intimate moments with Patty, then he didn’t really like her, which rendered her decision to cut him off all the more justified.

“But you know,” Patty was saying, “I don’t think people will remember you as the guy who broke CCU’s winning streak. They’ll remember you for putting CCU on the map.”

He scoffed, but Patty insisted, “No, really. We’ve never been known for sports, but since you joined the track team, everyone’s suddenly crazy about track. School spirit’s the strongest during your meets. That’s really something to be proud of, you know?”

“…I guess.”

“Hey, cheer up,” she said, bumping shoulders with him. “Look, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but the whole block’s waiting for you at Jitters. We’re throwing you a party, and it’d be nice if you could show up, being the guest of honor and all.”

“I don’t know,” he said, reluctant. “I’m not really hungry.”

“No way. Is that really you, Mr. ‘I Never Say No to Food’ Allen?”

He cracked a smile, and she continued, “Come on. You can have a whole tray of lasagna to yourself.”

He was grinning now. “Are you bribing me to attend my own party, Spivot?”

“Bribing? Who said we were paying for your lasagna?”

He laughed, and Patty smiled and stood, mockingly offering him a hand after she did.

Caitlin felt faint. She couldn’t bear to watch this. It had been a mistake to assume that she would only be hurt by a dramatic show of intimacy, because watching them during those few ordinary moments hurt like hell, too. They just made so much sense together—they had the same sunny good-naturedness, and they carried themselves with the same ease around people. She could never be like that. She couldn’t have comforted him the way Patty had, and it would never have occurred to her that, for someone who loved people as much as he did, he would have been cheered by a party, by being with good friends…

She whirled around, hurt and confused and keen to leave; but she’d forgotten she was standing on the only patch of flat ground in the middle of thick, gnarled roots, so when her toe snagged under one, she tripped and fell with a barely contained yelp.

Barry and Patty fell silent.

“What was that?” Patty said.

“Don’t know,” Barry said. “Must’ve been the wind…”

Caitlin winced, hoping they wouldn’t see her. Great. Just great. Why did she have to be cursed with such terrible bodily coordination? And what was it with this bleeding tree root? Couldn’t it have at least allowed her to walk away with dignity? She knew it was wrong to take her frustration out on it, but she viciously tore it away from her foot anyway.

“No, really, I think there’s someone—”

Caitlin froze at how close their voices suddenly were. Shit, now she couldn’t move until they passed by. It was getting dark—she had that on her side, at least—and she just hoped to God that they wouldn’t look too closely between the trees.

“Nah,” Barry said, turning to face Patty, “no one else really knows about this pla—”

And then he froze, his gaze landing right on her.

Oh shit.

He quickly placed his hands on Patty’s shoulders, steering her so that her back was turned to Caitlin, and said, “Look, why don’t you go ahead to Jitters?”

“What? Why?” Patty said.

Caitlin quickly got to her feet—wincing slightly when she put weight on the foot that had caught in the root—and turned to the opposite direction. He’d already seen her, anyway, so it was best to get the hell out while he was still talking to Patty.

“…need a little more time alone before I face everyone…” he was saying, his voice growing faint. She moved as quietly as she could, like she did when she first made her way up, and she was thankful for the night breeze that rustled the leaves and disguised the sound of her footsteps.

She glanced back to assess her progress. She saw Patty heading down the more well-worn path, and Barry… heading right towards her.

She cursed inwardly, unable to believe her terrible luck. She had the urge to break into a run, but it was already dark and she didn’t want to trip again… And besides, if she broke into a run, he would, too, and he could catch up to her in no time.

Damn it. She was trapped.

“Cait,” he said, his voice a lot nearer now, “wait, don’t go—”

She exhaled and turned to face him. A maelstrom of emotions roiled inside her, more violently now that she’d come face to face with its cause; but she held them under tight rein, and she willed her face into a blank mask.

He slowed when she turned, looking windswept and bewildered. “It really is you,” he murmured. “What’re you doing here?”

For a brief moment, she considered telling a lie, but she knew how easily he would see through it; there was simply no other believable excuse for her being here. She had no choice, then, but to tell the truth, and an irrational resentment welled inside her at this choicelessness, one that flattened her tone and blunted her words.

“I saw the tweets,” she said. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“Oh,” he said. “Uh… thanks.”

“Look, I have to go—”

“What time did you get here?” he said. They had spoken at the same time, but he chose to ignore what she just said, looking determined to steer the conversation. “How long have you been standing there?”

Caitlin’s face burned with humiliation. So he’d realized that she was eavesdropping. Another lie waited on the tip of her tongue—Just now, actually—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it, not when he was looking at her like that. “Long enough,” she said. And then, before she could stop it: “I overheard some parts of your conversation. I’m sorry.”

She thought he would have been mad, or at the very least annoyed, but instead he softened and took a cautious step towards her.

“I never brought her here,” he said.

Her breath caught in her throat; the maelstrom inside her surged, strained from the leash of her composure. He wasn’t supposed to say that. He was supposed to be annoyed or angry; he was supposed to throw his hands up in frustration; he was supposed to give up and walk away. Those reactions she could deal with, could categorize. But this? This was leading her into unknown territory, and she was afraid that if she stepped into it, she would find no solid ground beneath.

He continued, “I did mention it to her, because she once asked what my favorite place in campus was, but I never—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, willing her voice to remain even. “You’re free to bring whomever you want.”

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I brought you.”

The leash snapped. A flood of emotions assaulted her—first relief and hope, so strong that she wanted to move towards him, touch him, hold him and be held by him; but, only moments later, panic overpowered that—panic that she was no longer in control of the situation, that she was no longer in control of even herself; panic that she was standing on the precipice, on the verge of hurtling into something she would later regret. She could not allow herself this, she could not allow any emotional excess; she should not feel, else she could not think.

“Look,” she told him, gathering the remaining threads of her frayed resolve, “it was a mistake for me to come—”

“No, Cait, don’t do that—don’t shut me out again.” He sidestepped just as she turned away, so that she came face-to-face with him again, but she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. “Please, can we talk?”

“We just did.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And you already know what I have to say,” she gritted out. “I’ve already said everything that needs to be said.”

“Then,” he said, “why are you here?”

Her airways constricted. Even if he’d said it so gently, she felt like she’d been disarmed and trapped. Because that was the real question, wasn’t it? Why, after all her efforts to push him away, did she still seek him out? Why did the idea of him hurting sadden her? Why was she so compelled to cheer him up, to be there for him? She knew she’d had an answer to that, one that contained unthreatening truths, but she couldn’t summon it to mind now. Instead the answer that flashed into her mind—that flashed and then branded itself there, so searing that she couldn’t unthink it—was the truth she was too afraid to face, let alone say aloud.

So instead she lashed out.

“I don’t know, okay?” she snapped. “I. Don’t. Know. I feel like I’m always fumbling around in the dark when it comes to you—I don’t have answers ninety percent of the time, and the ten percent of answers I do have, I’m not completely convinced of. So, please. Don’t. Ask.”

His gaze softened, and he drew closer to her, but she remained rigid, her spine cast in steel. “Is that so bad?” he said. “Not having all the answers?”

“Of course it is,” she said vehemently. “Nothing is ever complicated for you, so of course you wouldn’t understand—”

“I wouldn’t understand?” he said, incredulous. “Cait, I don’t have all the answers either, but you don’t see me running away—”

“I’m not running away,” she said, hands balling into fists, “I’m solving the problem once and for all!”

“How?” he said, raking his hair in frustration. “By completely ignoring me?”

“Yes!” she seethed. “But you don’t seem to be taking the hint—”

“No, you’re right, that part I don’t understand,” he said, his voice rising, his features contorting in confusion and anguish. “Tell me, Cait, what exactly does that solve?”

She opened her mouth, but suddenly all words fled her, withered under the fire in his eyes.

“Well? Enlighten me,” he said, the word twisting his mouth in bitter irony, and it was such an unfamiliar expression on him that her gut wrenched in horror. Had she really been the one to put that expression on his face? She thought she’d be able to handle his anger, but it seemed that it only weighed her down with the guilt of being its cause. But couldn’t dwell on that now—not when she had to take control of the situation, not when she had a fight to win. “Maybe then we can be on the same page.”

“I’d be wasting my breath,” she said tightly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Then make me,” he said, his voice strained. “Make me understand your problem, Cait! I’m not a mind-reader!”

“My problem?” she bristled at the accusation in his tone; the blood rushed to her face, and the confusion, jealousy, and barely-leashed longing that she’d bottled and sealed finally burst and boiled over. “My problem is you! My problem is that you came along and threw my entire life off-course!” All rationality had fled her now, and she was running on the adrenaline of her anger. “Like I said, you wouldn’t understand. You’ve had crushes and girlfriends since middle school. I haven’t. It’s just not who I am. And I was perfectly fine with that.” Barry looked as if he were about to interject, but she couldn’t stop talking; the words rushed out of her in a raging torrent. “Actually, I was grateful for it, because it meant my work would never suffer from the unnecessary angst of romantic entanglements. My life was uncomplicated. All my efforts revolved around school and internships and scholarship programs, anything that could bring me closer to becoming a bioengineer. And for the most part, I was in control of everything in that world.”

She took a shaky breath. “But then you come along,” she accused with renewed vehemence, “and suddenly I’m not in control of anything. Everything’s incomprehensible. Every time you talk to me, it’s like you’re speaking in code. Every time a conundrum is solved, ten new ones appear.” The words burned like acid on her tongue. “My own feelings are incomprehensible to me. I’ve always been able to analyze them to death, but this time, the more I analyze, the more confused I get, and the stronger they become.”

His lips parted in surprise. “What do you—”

“So, Barry, tell me,” she said bitterly, her throat closing. “Tell me, how is it possible that in a span of two weeks, I’ve gone from being single-mindedly focused on building a career in bioengineering, to thinking of you every single moment of the day? How is it possible that I’ve gone from not being attracted to anyone, to liking you so much that I feel I’m going out of my mind?”

He stared at her, stunned.

The instant that last sentence fell from her lips, the invigorating haze of her anger cleared and left in its wake a cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Fuck, what did she just say? And why the hell did she have to go out and say it? She felt like she had just torn down her own defenses, and now she was standing in front of him, stripped of all her armor. Fuck, she hated this. She hated feeling so vulnerable.

“You like me,” he said in disbelief. And then, his lips stretched into a slow smile. “You like me.”

“Oh my God,” she breathed, wanting nothing more than to find a hole in the ground to bury her head in. If she could, she would have already raced back in time to take back everything she said, but instead she had to suffer the humiliating crush of the present. “That’s not the point—”

“No, Cait, I think that’s exactly the point,” he said. “Everything else is beside it.”

“You can’t call everything I’ve just said beside the point—”

“Okay, okay, you’re right, they’re not,” he quickly amended, holding both hands out in surrender to appease her. “What I meant was, can we start from this point?” He took a step closer, his eyes luminescent with hope. “Can we start from the fact that we both like each other and then figure out what happens from here?”

“I’ll tell you what happens from here,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to hold on to the last shreds of control that had so rapidly slipped from her hands. “We’ll go out on a few dates. You’ll find out that we’re not suited for each other. I’m too serious and uptight, and you’re too sunny and carefree. Everything that occurred over the past two weeks was exciting because of the novelty, but once the novelty wears off you’ll lose interest—”

“I’ll lose interest?” he said, drawing back in hurt. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“—and you’ll move on to someone else more suited to your personality.”

There was a beat of silence, and then comprehension dawned on his features.

“Like Patty, you mean?” he said.

“I’m not implying—”

His tone turned teasing. “Is that jealousy I’m hearing, Caitlin?”

She glared at him. “I’m just making a realistic assessment of the situation,” she said.

“Well, let me give you my realistic assessment of the situation,” he said. He was looking at her now with such tenderness that the steel in her spine had begun to melt; and before she could move away, he took her hands in his, just like he had during the orals; and he ran his fingers over hers, his touch warm and light and reassuring.

That was it, she was a goner. The last drop of resistance drained from her body. Deep down she knew that she had already lost—and she knew, even deeper down, that just maybe, she was glad to lose.

He slowly threaded his fingers through hers, his eyes trained on her, bright in the moonlight. “You have nothing to be jealous about,” he said, bringing up her hand and pressing a quick kiss onto her knuckles. The gesture struck her as so sweet and innocent that, even if she still had half her mind about her, she didn’t protest or pull away. He tugged on their joined hands to pull her even closer, and again she let him. She would never admit it to him—she would hardly even admit it to herself—but she was relieved to be so close to him again, after trying so hard to push him away.

His lips now ghosted the shell of her ear. “No one,” he said, with quiet resolution, “comes close to you.” He leaned his forehead against hers, and he was gazing at her through half-lidded eyes; his breath was warm on her skin, and it seemed that her world had narrowed to just him, in this moment, in the moonlit forest. “Look, I don’t have all the answers either,” he said softly. “Two weeks is a crazy-short amount time, but I’m already so in love with you I can barely breathe. I can’t explain it; all I know is that it is.”

A blush crept up her face. Her eyes fluttered close, and she swallowed, unable to speak; an unfamiliar happiness thrummed through her body, about to burst from her skin. She had never been schmaltzy or sentimental, but right now, she supposed she could make this exception for him.

“We don’t have to think about what’ll happen to us in a few months, or even after a few dates,” he said. “We can take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. At whatever pace you’d like.”

A few dates… She bit her lip, feeling her old apprehension return. There was a reason she avoided him so assiduously, and she’d disguised that reason in so many other layers of peripheral truths that she’d almost lost sight of it; but now that he’d brought it up, it emerged from the debris of her logic, demanding to be noticed.

Caitlin took a deep breath. If anything was to happen between them, she had to tell him this.

“I think—”

“Oh, that can’t be good,” he teased.

She wrinkled her nose at him and continued slowly, “I think I need some time alone to let this all sink in. No, wait, let me finish.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze to ease his alarm. “Barry, I’m terrified. That was the problem—I’m completely terrified of this. Of going out with you and being with you.” She swallowed. “I was avoiding you because I like you enough to know you could hurt me, and I don’t want to get hurt. I figured that if I cut you off first, you wouldn’t be able to hurt me.”

His expression mellowed. “I wish I could say something like ‘I’ll never hurt you,’” he said, “but that’d be a lie. I think the more you let someone in, the more power you give them to hurt you. So I get what you’re saying.” His grip on her hand tightened. “But I think it’ll all be worth it in the end.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

“But we never know anything for sure, anyway,” he said. “Even the most thoroughly researched predictions turn out wrong, and even the most improbable events come to happen, against all odds.” He flashed her a boyish smile. “As for me, I’m willing to take a chance on this”—he gestured between them—“improbable event.”

She shook her head and huffed a laugh. “For once, I don’t think I can argue with that logic.” He beamed, but she continued, “But I still need to let this all sink in. I just came to terms with everything, and it’s still extremely confusing…”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I understand. But promise me you won’t shut me out again,” he pleaded. “I don’t think I can bear any more of that. And besides, I’m running out of ideas for voicemails…”

She smiled, amused. “Alright,” she said. “I promise I won’t.”

“So… when’ll you talk to me again?” he grinned.

She pursed her lips. “Maybe after a week?”

“A week?!” he said, and then he cleared his throat and amended, “I mean, alright, sure, a week. I think I can do a week.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “Thank you,” she said, and, on impulse, she tilted her head to press a kiss on his jaw.

He looked surprised, but he recovered quickly with a mischievous smile. “Can I have more of those to get me through the week?” he said. “Like, one for each day—”

“Don’t push your luck,” she said, and he laughed.

“I’m kidding,” he said. “Really, take your time. Just, you know, not too much time. Okay, to be honest, I can’t wait for next week to come…”

“You really have no patience, do you?”

“Absolutely none,” he chirped. “But when it comes to you, I guess I have a little bit more than my baseline patience.”

“How romantic,” she said dryly, and he grinned.

“Now that I have a ton of,” he said.

“Well, I don’t have a romantic bone in my body,” she said, with a teasing smile, “but when it comes to you, I guess I have a bit more than a scaphoid to spare.”

He laughed. “I’ll take it,” he said, brushing his lips on the inside of her wrist, right where her scaphoid was. When he looked up at her again, his eyes were shining with mirth. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

“Yes we are,” she said quietly. “We definitely are.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, surrounded by the soft rustling of leaves, the glow of streetlamps along the well-worn path, and the smell of the earth.

After a few moments, Caitlin ventured to speak.

“By the way, how’re you feeling?” she asked. “After that meet…”

“Oh… I’m still upset about it,” he said. “But it was partly my fault—Hunter was a new contender so I might’ve underestimated him—but you win some, you lose some, I guess.” He pulled away briefly to give her a pout. “I’m really hurt you didn’t come, though.”

“You’ll get over it,” she said dryly.

“The least you could do is kiss the hurt better,” he said, and she swatted his arm. “Ow, ow—fine, fine, I’ll stop soliciting kisses… But can I at least have a hug?”

He grinned, and she sighed.

“Fine. One second.”

“…Are you seriously giving me a hug time limit?”

“No such thing as free lunch, as they say.”

“But hugs are supposed to be free!”

“Not in my currency,” she returned.

“Well, how about two seconds?” he wheedled, giving her the smile that she couldn’t resist. “I mean, I was second place and all…”

She pretended to consider it. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“Yesss!” he cheered, disentangling his hands from hers to spread his arms open for the hug, but she pushed him back lightly at the shoulders.

“Wait, don’t you have a party to go to?”

“A par—oh, that. That can wait,” he said. “Not fair. You’re doing that on purpose.”

She tilted her head to the side innocently. “Doing what on purpose?”

“Cait, seriously, this is the worst time to make me wait,” he said, petulant. “I would really like to avail of my hug now, please.”

She smiled. Oh, she missed him. She really missed him. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he quickly pulled her flush against him, his arms strong around her waist. He let out a contented sigh and buried his face in the crook of her neck, and she closed her eyes and melted into his embrace.

They stayed like that for far longer than two seconds, but neither of them were counting.

[libidomechanica]

I love thee with the plains again

No, never, I’ll never stop loving you Not till my heart beats its last And even then in my words and my songs I will love you all over the oxheart that flooded your bed,

hollowed you out. My scorn with pity oft will tell to those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the park putting on Latin King gold like the Chicano cats over east before the Flood, And you should tire of loving me Some one of our far days, Oh, never start to hide your heart(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you) here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root of the root of the root and the bud of the pain, I did not feel ? To ease me in distress. Taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does.) Laid on 1 of my arms like a shotgun. Beneath that vast disintegration of the Jews. So waste not thou; but come; for all the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended. That holy dream— that holy dream, While all the light out and the day Was sloping toward his western bower.          A we-see poem, a they-love poem.

My father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share, let blood and flesh be mud and mire, scheming imagine, passion willed, freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind, a heart to fear, to doubt a mind, to differ a disease of same, conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright, bitter all utterly things sweet, maggoty minus and dumb death all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth —i say though hate were why men breathe— because my Father lived his soul love is the whole and more than married are.

That drop which it sucked from thee? All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair. Black, we will once again forgive Ourselves for the people that have been already said many times: leaf, zipper, sparrow, lintel, scarf, window shade. Neither of us dared to move or breathe.